


A Great Party on the One Day They Know You Can't Come

by JWAB



Series: Lake House [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Basketball, Big Chill AU, Getting the Band Back Together, Multi, Pining, Shittons of pining actually, communion, in which Louie dies unexpectedly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JWAB/pseuds/JWAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne takes a wobbly breath and waits for John to answer.<br/>“Treville.”<br/>“John.” She hates the way her voice trembles. And her cheeks are wet again, damn. “Hi, John.”<br/>“Anne? Are you all right?”<br/>“It’s Louie.”<br/>“What did he do?”<br/>“He’s dead. He died.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts).



> The Big Chill was a movie made in 1983 (with Glenn Close, Jeff Goldblum, and the then criminally sexy Kevin Kline and William Hurt) in which a group of friends, now about 15 years out from their college days, come together for a funeral weekend after their friend commits suicide. Old romantic interests are rekindled and new ones are born, all woven together between people who, beneath all of the burden and disillusionment of adulthood, still love each other deeply.
> 
> So I was seized with the idea -- hijacked in the middle of my day, you know -- to write a modern-day Musketeers Big Chill AU. I was powerless to resist. The gang (all former denizens of Castelmore College) returns to Champaign, Illinois for Louie's funeral. The characters don’t map perfectly onto the original film’s, but there is much you’ll find that’s familiar if you know the film (and if you don’t, now is your chance to watch it). The one theme that you won’t find from the film is the specifically baby-boomer “have we lost our souls now that we own houses and have jobs?” angst. There was nothing that generation loved more than to navel gaze, particularly with regard to the whereabouts of their youthful ideals, but it’s not a question that felt relevant to our crew. Finally, I’m not engaging season 3, only because the conception of this fic came before I started watching. That’s not to say that some of it won't sneak in down the line, but the fic’s backstory really dwells in seasons one and two.

**Monday**

There’s no blood. No smell. No pulse. Just weight and nothing, taking up the space where Louie used to be. Anne stumbles backward until the corner stops her.

 

**Tuesday**

Anne makes the important calls before noon, the soonest Marie could come. Once Marie arrives the rest will be out of Anne’s hands. Mainly, she has to keep the funeral local, as Louie would have wanted. Anne begins the phone calls before the sun’s all the way up. She looks up the number for the funeral home she’s driven past nearly every day since they moved back to town five years ago. _Now I’ll know what it looks like on the inside_ , and then: _now I’ll never_ not _know what it looks like on the inside_. She gives them the details she got from the coroner and then she calls bright, stained-glassed St. Remi to make arrangements for the service. It was Louie’s favorite of the local churches, she tells the secretary after her cheerful greeting turns soft and carefully sympathetic. She calls caterers, one after another until the third agrees they can work this in. She calls a florist who weeps when she realizes the mayor has died, and Anne is struck by the genuine feeling people in this town have – _had_ – for Louie. Or maybe it was just this one florist who gave a real shit.

In between calls she drinks through two pots of coffee. Philip, the younger of her two boys, appears in the doorway. She pulls him, all knees and elbows, onto her small lap for the first time in years.

Her last phone call of the morning is to John Treville. She is exhausted. She takes a wobbly breath and waits for him to answer.

“Treville.”

“John.” She hates the way her voice trembles. And her cheeks are wet again, damn. “Hi, John.”

“Anne? Are you all right?”

“It’s Louie.”

“What did he do?”

“He’s dead. He died.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yesterday. He was just. He’s dead.”

A breath. In, then out. “I’ll be right there.”

“No, there’s – would you call Constance and the guys? I just. I’ve been on the phone all morning.” Anne bites at her lip. “Tell them the funeral is Thursday at St. Remi. They should come. He would have wanted them there, don’t you think?”

“Of course.”

Anne presses cold fingers against her hot cheeks.

“Anne. Do _you_ need anything?”

“I’m okay.”

 

John tells the rest of the people in the city manager office about Louie before he walks the four blocks home.

It was only a few years they were all together, but they were magic. Louie was a shit and Porthos was a star -- there’s no way around it, he just was. The team played like they shared one brain and the rest of it, all of their fucking around, he did his best to ignore.

At home, he pours himself a finger of whiskey and downs it in one fiery gulp. A second pour, slower and bigger than the first, he takes to the chair by the window. These are not going to be easy calls.

  1. Seventeen years. He feels ancient.



“Athos.”

“John, I’m between classes, can I call you after 1:30?”

“Louie died last night.”

“Jesus.”

 

“Coach!”

“It’s John, d’Artagnan. Call me John.”

“Whatever you say, Coach. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Bad news: Louie died yesterday.”

“What? You’re kidding. What happened?”

“I don’t know yet. Anne wanted me to reach out --”

“Of course, of course.”

“Funeral is here on Thursday. Can you and Constance get away?”

“You got it.”

 

Constance blames her reaction on the hormones. “Who knew empathetic knee-buckling was a thing?” she asks tearily when d’Artagnan guides her to a chair in her office. And then variations on “poor Anne,” over and over, dotting their shared silence on the way home.

D’Artagnan orders Indian food; Constance calls Anne. “Sweetheart,” she begins, and she’s crying again.

“Constance, hi.”

“Tell me.”

 

“Aramis.”

“ _Father_ Aramis, I’ll have you know.”

“God help us all.”

“Got that right. This is a rare honor. What can I do for you?”

John hates to erase the smile in Aramis’ voice. “Well, you can come to Champaign on Thursday. For Louie Bourbon’s funeral.”

Aramis is silent for longer than a few breaths. Then, “how is she?”

“She’s. You know.”

“How’s…?”

“Sad. They’re all sad.”

 

“Porthos? It’s John Treville.”

A deep breath first, then Porthos whistles until it becomes a word, like a bomb exploding far away. “Wow.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

Faint typing. “Just calling to catch up, or…? Cause I’m on deadline.”

“Louie died yesterday,” John interrupts.

The typing stops. “Fuck, really?”

“Anne is hoping you can make it to the funeral on Thursday.”

 

It’s past 10pm when John makes one final call, after digging online until he finally tracks down a number, after going back and forth on it for hours, deciding not to and later forgetting why. In the end, there’s no answer so he leaves an awful message: “Look, Louie died yesterday. Thought you’d want to know.”

 

**Thursday**

St. Remi Cathedral really isn’t one. It’s a small church with delusions of grandeur but Louie thought it was beautiful. He adored the rose window, its ornate swirl of blues and pinks, that his great-grandfather underwrote -- when he went with Anne and the boys to church, he used to gaze at it as if struck by devotion, but Anne knew it was a kind of vanity if anything.

People just die. Hearts stop. A fluke, a murmur, a defect. They die and every time you remember they’re dead, they die for you again.

Anne glares at the stained glass, back rod-straight as she listens to another somber baroque piece from the organist. Is church music meant to be torture? Philip holds Anne’s left hand, and next to him, in conspicuously high-end black, Marie holds his; Louis Jr. has his arm around Anne’s shoulders on her right.

She should have had a glass of water before she left. Her tongue feels like cardboard.

John’s voice, respectfully low, floats behind her as he travels up and down the aisles from the door, greeting guests on behalf of the family and the city. When he comes up to the front, she can’t help but look for him: his words don’t insist, he doesn’t touch. He guides people to empty seats, watching to see who wants space and who needs the warmth of other mourners beside them.

 _Thank you_ , Anne sends up, _for John._

John lets Constance gather him up into a tight embrace. He offers a hand to d’Artagnan but the boy – man, he is undeniably all grown up now – wraps him in a hug that lingers just a moment for their grief and their time apart. John doesn’t need to find them seats; Constance lurches down the aisle to Anne and hugs her old friend to standing before sliding into the pew right behind her. D’Artagnan follows slowly. His Samson hair and broad-shouldered swagger are unmistakable even all these years later. Constance is the same, too – softer here and there, with lines etched from hundreds of smiles John only now realizes he’s sorry he missed. D’Artagnan is a lucky man.

Athos and Porthos come in together. John swallows hard, reminding himself to let Porthos take the lead in this, even if that means letting him breeze through town without exchanging a word with him. But Porthos follows when Athos strides down the aisle with his hand extended and John is glad to take first his and then, a little dazed, Porthos’ as well.

Champaign’s notables fill every pew by the time the priests file in.

“Is it bad form to be bored already?” Porthos whispers at Athos’ neck as the room quiets.

“There’s something to be said for a protestant service,” Athos agrees, hushed. “One hour. Sooner you finish, sooner you can toast the departed.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please tell you’re not offended, I’m counting on you.”

“That’s Aramis.”

Shorter hair now, close cropped and shot through with gray, but unmistakably Aramis. “I hoped he’d join in. Good for him.” And then, realizing the implications of Porthos’ surprise, “what, did you forget he was a priest?”

“No, I.” Porthos can’t finish the sentence, can’t look away from the altar with Aramis standing right there after all these years, unfamiliar and so real in full priest’s habit, overlaid with a gold-embroidered robe and purple cowl. His short hair would make him look younger, if not for the gray. But his hands are the same, precise and fine. “I just haven’t seen him… like this. It’s.”

Porthos doesn’t finish and Athos doesn’t push.

 

D’Artagnan is relieved when Constance lets go of Anne’s shoulder and leans back into him. She’s going to make an excellent mother. And if in the whirlwind of diapers and lunchboxes he has to remind her that she deserves care too, he’ll happily do it. He imagines what she’d do in Anne’s shoes, how strong she’d be even with tears streaming down her cheeks. It’s like a super power: she can be so emotional and powerful at the same time. It’s not a weakness for her. She harnesses it, allows it, even in the courtroom. That will be good too, when she’s a mother. And then it strikes him like a sword through his heart what it would mean if somehow she were to lose him, like Anne's lost Louie, before she had a child. How alone she would be – Constance, who needs people. He has to give her a family. And if he’s very lucky, he’ll be part of it until he’s old and gray.

 

“Welcome to St. Remi.” Father Jerry, the senior priest, a bald, generous-faced man, bends forward to speak into the podium microphone. “It’s bittersweet to see the cathedral so full this morning. I recognize many of you, but since most of you are not regular parishioners… We have grape juice in cups for those who avoid alcohol. Also bear in mind that the Liturgy of the Eucharist, which we’ll celebrate next, is not required or meant for everyone. But please come up and receive a blessing, even if it’s been awhile since you’ve visited a church. We’re glad you’re here.”

When their row is invited to get in line, Porthos stands. It’s not a decision, exactly.

Athos rears back. “Since when?”

“Shut up,” Porthos tells him, climbing past him, bumping Athos’ knee harder than he needs to.

Porthos has never taken communion. He’s been to church three times in his life, all three with Aramis back in college. He watched Aramis unselfconsciously wait in line, receive a quarter-sized wafer in his palm, have a sip of wine, and come back to their pew serene and clear.

If Athos pressed, if he asked what the fuck Porthos thought he was doing, Porthos wouldn’t have an answer. He just knows Aramis is up there, priesting, and Porthos can’t allow himself to miss it.

The three presiding priests stand at the bottom of the stairs in front of the altar. Father Jerry is in the middle with a silver chalice; he wipes the rim after each sip. The third, clearly junior, priest stands on Jerry’s far side with a tray of tiny plastic shot glasses. And first in line is Aramis, Father Aramis, _fucking insane_ , with a plate of wafers. Porthos watches him place a wafer in a woman’s cupped hands. He blesses the next person, laying his palm against their forehead, letting his fine fingers fall onto the crown of their head, closing his eyes for a breath. The next few hold their hands out for wafers. One, an older man, opens his mouth. Aramis places a wafer directly on the man’s tongue. Porthos heart turns over in his chest.

_Oh._

Aramis catches sight of Porthos when there are still a few people ahead of him. His eyes crinkle with a bright smile. He breathes deeply, doesn’t look away from Porthos until he has to but his eyes are still happy, happy.

Moments later, Porthos is at the front of the line. Aramis’ face softens as he raises his hand up over Porthos’ head for a blessing.

Porthos closes his eyes and opens his mouth. He just fucking _does it_.

His lips tingle in the cool air. They’re dry, he wants to lick them, he wants to open his eyes. What is he doing? This is a dare. It feels aggressive now, standing here, and unbearably vulnerable. What possessed him to come up here? Will Aramis be hurt by it, think Porthos is making fun of him? Will he be angry?

He feels like he’s waiting for a kiss.

Can he still take it back?

The wafer is light and floury on his tongue, and Aramis’ warm finger slowly brushes Porthos’ lip. Porthos waits, breathless, before he draws the wafer inside his mouth and closes his lips; only then does he open his eyes. Aramis’ smile is gone.

 

The Champaign Women’s Club hosts the reception, a gesture to their long standing patroness Marie. Anne would have been happier with a small open house but how could Marie refuse? Anne finds a quiet corner at the far end of the large banquet hall, away from the doors and the food; Marie commandeers the boys just inside the entrance so everyone can (has to) greet them and tell her how much they miss Louie already, how very sorry they are for her loss, how fondly they remember her late husband Henry, how awful this must be for her and the boys, oh these poor, strong boys, will you follow in your father’s footsteps? What will we do without a Bourbon in the mayor’s office?

Marie knows people’s names. So did Louie. It’s better that Marie handle this part. She actually likes it.

John offers Anne a small plate of cheese and celery. “Have you eaten anything?”

She had two bites of a peanut butter sandwich at 3:30 this morning. She thanks John for the food. Sets it down. Doesn’t touch it again.

 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says, deadpan, like a punchline.

D’Artagnan whirls in his spot, wipes his hand on his cocktail napkin before giving Athos’ shake. “Athos, it’s been too long.”

“Where’s Constance?”

D’Artagnan juts his chin in the direction of a group near the east windows. The late morning light makes a halo of Constance’s auburn curls. A few old friends stand around her, mostly Anne’s.

Constance exudes empathy. She holds thirteen-year-old Philip against her side, stroking his arm gently while she listens. He is just tall enough to lay his head on her shoulder.

“Good, good,” Athos says, watching them.

“Has it really been three years? And we live, what, twenty miles apart? Shit. How are you?” d’Artagnan asks, turning fully to Athos now. “You look good.”

Is it a strange thing to say to an old friend and teammate? Now it’s out, it feels wrong. But he does, he looks fantastic. Athos gets better with age. Adulthood suits him, as does the increasing sprinkle of silver in his shoulder-length hair. The skeptical expression that used to seem so severe for a college student makes more sense on him now. Otherwise, he looks the same. Exactly the same.

Athos shrugs, almost smiles.

“You’re just about mid-semester right now, yeah? Not an ideal time to get away.”

“Midterms, which actually makes it easier. I had one of my TAs proctor my exams. Kant for my upper division and – why do I do this to myself? -- a team course across the humanities, so murky, problematic moral relativism for the freshmen. Forty-two essays, seventy-two with Kant, all waiting for me when I get back.” He rolls his eyes, throws back a mouthful of coffee as if it were scotch.

But d’Artagnan is beaming. Or is it Athos beaming and d’Artagnan basking in his glow? The students are lucky to learn from him, to see him every day, to have his influence in their lives. D’Artagnan would go back to school in a heartbeat if he could major in philosophy under Athos. “Professor de la Fere,” he muses.

Athos dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “And you, do I remember you opened your own practice? How is it, teaming up with your wife?”

“It’s fantastic,” d’Artagnan shrugs.

 

Porthos and Aramis cross paths in the hallway outside the men’s room. Porthos offers his hand to shake and Aramis takes it, pumping it a little longer than he expects.

Porthos has to admit to himself that it wasn’t research keeping him floating, eavesdropping, on the move for the most-of-an-hour he’s been at the reception. He has been avoiding Aramis after that stupid communion stunt. What was he thinking? Like today wasn’t going to be twelve different kinds of hard already.  

“Porthos. It’s good to see you, my friend. How are you?”

Aramis is dazzling up close. He’s thinner, gaunt almost, and no beard anymore but not exactly clean shaven. He’s strange, all in black with a white collar around his neck. And he’s untouchable, a different person in these clothes, these choices. Back in college they were just about the same size. Now Aramis seems so much smaller – but then, Porthos has gained some weight over the years. Writing means time at a desk for better or worse, and he ignores Paul’s invitations for three on three at the Y more often than he cares to admit. His six pack is probably gone for good, and those guns he used to be so proud of are hidden under a layer of padding. He feels huge compared to Aramis.

Small talk, at least, he can do. “I’m great. You? What’s it like, being a priest?”

“Lonely, actually.”

Porthos freezes at Aramis’ candor. “Oh, so we’re telling the truth?”

“Didn’t we always?”

 _Look at him._ No one in real life is this attractive; it’s not fair to normal people. And to look like this and become a priest, it’s like some sick joke.

The answer to Aramis’ question is a categorical no. Maybe Aramis told the truth. For Porthos’ part, he should have let this crush go a long time ago. It’s comical – darkly comical, humiliating – to carry a torch after so many years.

No, this is good, being here, seeing Aramis again after years of spotty correspondence and weak-ass Facebook likes. Porthos has a chance to put his feelings to bed. Maybe then he can be the friend Aramis always thought he was. “Yeah,” Porthos says, forcing a grin, “yeah we did.”

“Course it wouldn’t be as lonely if I wasn’t shit at staying in touch.”

“True.”

“Thank God you’re here,” Aramis sighs.

Fuck. If he leaves soon, he can probably hop the red-eye.

 

The room pulses with the roar of whispers and hushed conversation.

John lets the two city councilmen drone on about plans for the downtown parking lot. It would be more work to stop them, but he hates them more every minute. It’s Louie’s funeral, for fuck’s sake. Have some respect.

Meanwhile, John angles to get a glimpse of Anne through the (he’s guessing) two hundred guests. Anne shouldn’t have to be here. He could have managed it without her, and Marie is in her element presiding over the event, gathering sympathy like a bee gathering pollen.

He catches d’Artagnan’s eye, motions for him to come over.

“What’s up?”

“It’s been almost two hours, Anne’s got to be exhausted. Think you and Constance can get her and the boys home?”

“Sure. What about you?”

“I’ll close up here.”

Athos joins them. “What can I do?”

It feels right to him, familiar despite the strange circumstances, to have the team back together – mostly. “Help Coach, would you? We’re gonna get Anne home. Meet you there later?”

 

Anne doesn’t resist and Louis Jr. comes silently to her side. Philip stays glued to Marie – he’ll stay with her overnight, they have always been close -- but Louis Jr. was Anne’s from the moment he was born. Their temperaments are so similar: contemplative, sensitive, outrage-ready when injustice is dealt.

“Quiet, finally” Anne sighs when they’re all in the car. “It was so loud in there.” She closes her eyes, lets her head fall against the headrest. No one speaks on the drive home.

When they pull into her driveway, Anne doesn’t move. “I don’t want to go in. I know I have to, but I really can’t face it.”

D’Artagnan, beside her, shakes his head. “You really don’t have to. Where do you want to go? You want to come back to Chicago with us?”

“The lake house,” Louis Jr. suggests.

Anne reaches her hand back to take his. “Yes, the lake house.”

“Great, where is it?”

“Two hours southwest of here,” Louis Jr. explains. “I’ll go pack for us – give me ten minutes?”

“Can you get my blue sweatshirt? I think it’s hanging inside my bathroom.”

It’s quiet in the car. Constance squeezes Anne’s shoulder; Anne slides her palm over Constance’s hand. “Can you stay here a few days? Come to the lake house?”

D’Artagnan twists in his seat. Constance bites her lip; he nods, blinks slowly. “Sure we can. I’ll call the guys. They were planning to meet us here after the reception. Could they come to the lake for the evening?”

“Or the weekend?” Constance asks, eyes still glued to d’Artagnan’s.

Anne’s eyes drift closed. “The weekend. Yeah. Ask them to stay, if they can.”

Constance’s breath comes out in a rush.

 

After a quick stop at John’s for clothes (and a drink), Athos and John pick up dinner and wine on the way south.

“You've had a few days to think about it. So how does city manager look without Louie and Anne at the helm?”

The road stretches out before him. Simple. No turns. And honesty – all Athos wants from him – is invitingly unfamiliar. “I miss teaching. And coaching. But government work pays better.”

Athos exhales a whiff of a laugh. “Louie couldn’t have taken over without you.”

John drives. “I know.”

“And Anne… you two have gotten close.”

“No,” he returns, a reflex, then (because Athos may be the one person he doesn’t have to lie to), “I’ve gotten to know her much better working for Louie. For both of them, really. She’s extraordinary.”

“She is.” Athos doesn’t add to that, just watches the road.

Anne has been the center of complicated feelings John didn’t ever want. She is beautiful, of course he sees that, everyone sees that, but she is… more. She is more intelligent, wiser, kinder than Louie ever was. She is stronger than anyone knew, stronger than John ever realized, and resilient. When Louie had his affair, public as it was, her composure never failed. God, that was when it started, wasn’t it? Watching Anne swallow the hurt when the newspaper printed pictures of him with another woman. A woman with wild hair and a severe, predatory beauty – they couldn’t have been more different, Louie’s two Annes.

“I never understood," John tells Athos, all at once, “what she saw in him. When he asked me to leave Castelmore and take over as city manager, I turned him down. I was happy, and I was good at my job. I was where I was supposed to be. But when she asked me…” John sniffs abruptly. “What about you? Still glad you moved to Chicago?”

“I am. It’s a contentious department, but I keep my head down and don’t say yes to things.”

“Ah, so that’s how it’s done.”

“Yes, padawan, let me teach you how to be a curmudgeon.”

“Padawan? Please. You learned everything you know from me.”

Athos laughs, but then: “I did, you know.”

 

The lake house was always Anne’s more than Louie’s. It was her idea, when they moved back to Champaign, to find a place they could get away as a family. A haven, because when they were in town they were always working. She couldn’t go out without being addressed, at the very least, as the First Lady – the town loved their local celebrities. She wanted a place far enough away that they couldn’t just stop back in town on a moment’s notice. A place where their sphere of control was both small and absolute.

Anne knew she’d found her haven when she first glimpsed it, a flash of pale blue hidden among elm trees and maples. Two storeys with a balcony the length of the second floor overlooking the lake and a patio below. The first year she planted annuals down the stone path to the shore; in later years she let the native ferns take over and brush her ankles as she and the boys ran to the water.

It glows best at this time of evening, through tree-filtered pink light.

Anne assigns the master bedroom to Constance and d’Artagnan and brooks no refusal; she doesn’t want to sleep there, not this weekend, not yet, and anyway that’s the largest bed. Louis Jr. takes his usual small room; Anne will sleep in Philip’s room. The fourth bedroom, bunkbeds for when the boys brought friends to stay, is where Athos and John drop their things – but not until John argues, limply, that he only came for dinner, doesn’t want to impose, really this weekend is for them.

Anne asks, quietly, “please stay? I want you to.” So he stays.

It’s Constance who insists Porthos take the den, with a futon and more importantly, a desk, when he protests he’s got to leave in the morning, he’s working on a deadline. “Plus, look at this,” she says, stroking the door like Vanna White, “state of the art door-closing technology. We promise that when this door is closed, we won’t bother you. Utter and absolute privacy.”

“Come on,” Aramis asks. “Stay the weekend. I haven’t seen you in years. I’ll make sure you get your work done.”

With a huff, Porthos drops his bag on the futon. “You’re my lawyer if anything goes south?”

Constance's smile is wide, almost giddy. “We’d be hurt if you hired anyone else.”

“Speak for yourself,” d’Artagnan mumbles through a helpless grin.

 

Aramis gets the play room in the attic. He unpacks quickly – he has very little in the way of personal things. His jeans and t-shirt he changes into right away; he feels awkward in his starched collar around real friends. Behind the pull-out couch are shelves filled with old comic books, board games, a basket of action figures. Louis Jr.’s things from when he was younger, when he was fragile and new. Now he’s taller than Anne, just about Aramis’ height, and his face…

Everyone is older now, and Aramis suspects he’s the oldest of all.

There’s a knock on the door at the bottom of the attic stairs and it immediately opens just a crack, enough for Athos’ head. “How’s the penthouse?”

“Come on up. There’s a TV the size of a small country up here.”

“Enticing,” Athos drawls, but two more steps and he’s beside Aramis, handing him a glass of wine.

“I think it’s for video games,” Aramis says.

“Are you going to be okay here?”

“Oh yeah, the couch pulls out, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“No. Here. With them. With us.”

Aramis takes a sip, closes his eyes, swallows. “Athos, I missed you.”

“Me too, old friend. I honestly didn’t think you’d come. But I worried you would.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“And yet, I do.”

“Anne and I are fine. And I don’t intend to upend Louis Jr.’s life the weekend of Louie’s funeral. Or ever. That ship has sailed.”

“Stuffy in here,” Athos says, propping open the only window, a screenless skylight. “You don’t think he’ll figure it out on his own?”

That’s when the bat flies in. Something fluttery, anyway, that flies right at and past them – they don’t realize what it is at first, but Aramis’ barked “fuck!” brings the rest of the party to the foot of the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” comes John’s voice, crisp and immediate.

“Bat,” Athos announces.

D’Artagnan bounds up the stairs with a tennis racket. “Where?”

“Thanks,” Athos says, holding out his hand for the racket.

D’Artagnan clutches it to his belly. “Get your own.”

Glaring, Athos grabs a cushion off the couch. Aramis dumps out the contents of his duffel and swings it by the handle. “Ready.”

Porthos takes the steps two at a time, a magazine twisted tight in one hand. “So what’s the plan?”

Athos surveys them -- the racket, the pillow, the magazine, the bag. Unseemly as it is under the circumstances, his heart hasn’t been this full since college. “Let’s see: Porthos can read to it until it falls asleep, Aramis can scoop it up, and d’Artagnan’ll swat it out into the night.”

“Shit,” Aramis hisses from the corner of the room, where the ceiling slopes far enough he has to crouch. “Almost had him.”

Porthos holds the magazine out in front of him like a baseball bat. “Come out, tiny disgusting rodent….”

“Are you scared of bats?” d’Artagnan whispers, taunting him.

“Scared? No. But they are ugly little fuckers, covered in all kinds of bacterial ick.”

“I think they’re cute,” comes Constance’s voice from the bottom of the stairs.

“There,” Athos whispers just as Aramis yells “got it!” With a grimace, he zips the bag closed. “Outside?”

Louis Jr. climbs the stairs, hands outstretched. “I’ll take him. I know where they live.”

“And then maybe burn the bag?” Porthos calls after him.

 

Constance helps Anne change the sheets in the master bedroom while the guys set out the food. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? D’Artagnan and I can sleep anywhere, you can have your room.”

“It’s fine.”

“Really, you should sleep in your own bed.”

Anne gives Constance a playfully withering glare. “New subject: what was that look d’Artagnan gave you in the car? About staying? Do you have to get back?”

“I had an appointment. But it’s fine, I think. It looks like, um, yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “Looks like we’ll be implementing an early version of our plan B. Maybe. Still not sure about it, but, yeah.”

“Plan?”

“You know we’ve been… I want a child. We. We both do. But, nothing, all this time. I thought it was me. I was sure it was me.”

“It’s not?”

“Doctors say it’s all him. And there’s nothing to be done. So we talked about it, maybe we could adopt, you know, all the options. But d’Artagnan, he can be so generous – not with everything, but he knew it meant something to me, so he suggested we look into a sperm bank.”

“So it can be yours? So you can carry it? That’s big of him.”

Constance nods. “It’s such a strange thing, looking through a binder of profiles, no pictures, just the stats on random men who’ve jerked it into a jar.”

“You make it sound so romantic.”

“This was the weekend we were going to start. I’m all hopped up on fertility hormones, I’m ovulating, and tomorrow is my appointment.”

“Oh no, you’re missing it? You should go back --”

“That’s where the alternate version of plan B comes in.”

“Alternate plan B? What --?” Anne’s eyebrows go low and close. “Nooooo….”

“Yyyyyup. It only remains to decide which one to ask.”

Anne leans closer. “Which one to ask to fuck you?” she whispers.

“Yes, exactly,” Constance whispers back.

“Aramis. Obviously.”

A smile spreads across Constance’s face. “Really, though? Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Everything about this is weird. But if you're worried about me, don't be. Our kids would be secret half-siblings. You’re already like a sister to me.”

Constance gives Anne’s hand a squeeze.

“Look, he makes sense. You know his, uh, pistol is loaded.”

“Nice.”

“What? That’s crucial to the project.”

“Okay, yes.”

“Plus, as a priest he wouldn’t sue for joint custody.”

“I’d like to see him try it.”

“Aaaaand.”

“And what?”

“And he is ridiculously good in bed. If memory serves. He does this thing with his hips --”

“ _Stop_. Okay. I’ll ask him.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

“I’m already sorry.”

 

Athos makes sure everyone has a glass of wine. He doesn’t ask Anne if she wants some, just fills her glass perilously full and kisses her forehead. John is on his second round already.

When Athos refills Aramis’ glass, Porthos scoffs.

“What?”

“It’s weird that you can drink.”

Aramis takes a sip to prove it. “Been practicing all my life. I rarely spill.”

“I mean, shouldn’t alcohol not be allowed for priests?”

(Athos offers wine to Constance; she refuses, as does d’Artagnan in solidarity. “More for me,” Athos toasts.)

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Aramis pushes.

Porthos’ expression is incredulous. Isn’t it obvious? “Sex and wine go hand in hand.”

“No, wine and _communion_ go hand in hand.”

Athos whirls around from where he’s set the bottle down on the counter. “Speaking of which! Porthos, what _was_ that at the service?”

A flush rises up Porthos’ neck to his cheeks.

“Tease the man of the cloth, I’m sure.” Aramis’ voice is breezily light but he stares right through Porthos. “Happens all the time.”

 

They don’t bother with platters and bowls, just lay the take-out containers out across the table and dig in: ribs, chicken, brisket and a few sides from Jesse’s Barbeque. No one’s in charge and they don’t stand on ceremony – it’s a team that’s sitting down to eat, a family.

Aramis has managed out in the world by giving it only a sliver of himself. The real meat of himself, he’s kept hidden. He got so good at hiding himself over their last semester at Castelmore, when even his interminable dates with Marguerite didn’t get him any closer to Anne. He was performing for Marguerite, ruthlessly pretending to be interested in her for even one peek at Anne, who wouldn’t show until well into summer, he knew that. He played the role of a college senior, basketball player, easy-going guy when in fact his heart was filling with protective, paternal feelings in spite of himself, and against Anne’s explicit instructions. But these people, his best friends, knew exactly what Aramis was going through. Eventually Aramis even came clean with Coach Treville; he couldn’t stand being on the court with Louie and his smug, baby-on-the-way joy. Aramis fell apart in John’s office, crying so hard he popped blood vessels around his eyes. And John held him. He kissed the top of his head when his crying became moaning and the painful truth flowed out of him, searing and viscous.

Until his years at the seminary, the hard shell he presented to the world was porous, at least. But everyone holds back at the seminary. The students twist themselves into knots to be what they are expected to be: obedient, straight, nonsexual. They watch each other like hawks, all too ready to swoop in and expose a misstep, if only to deflect from their own. Everyone performs, and then they’re ordained and they just perform on a larger scale.

Maybe that’s why he stopped returning calls and started refusing invitations. Because here, with the ones who know him all the way to his soul, his performance just falls away. It’s superfluous, it dissolves with every touch – and touch, he has come to realize, is too much of a trigger not to restrict it carefully. But Constance hugs and d’Artagnan hugs and Athos’ handshakes are long and tight, and as much as it hurts, he loves it.

 

Anne drains her water glass. “Can I get water for anyone else? More wine?”

Aramis lays his napkin down. “I’ll get it.”

But Anne stays him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”

“How did we not know about this place?” Louis Jr. asks, piling a third helping of ribs on his plate. “Jesse’s Barbeque. Can this be a new tradition?”

“Leave some for the guests, kiddo,” Anne calls from the kitchen.

He looks up and down the table. “Mom, they’re stuffed.”

“We are,” Athos confirms. “I’ve never been this full in my life.”

“Grief makes you hungry,” Aramis adds, leaning back, entertained by Louis Jr.’s every move.

“Yeah, exactly,” Louis Jr. offers before tearing into another rib.

“Plus, growing boy,” d’Artagnan adds. “You remember how much I used to put away.”

Constance snorts. “Used to? Please.”

They all laugh. They all want to. The old teammates are brimming with mirth just to be together, and the rest are happy by contagion. Even Anne, when she sits back down, has the wisp of a smile on her lips.

Louis Jr. wipes his face. “Is that when you played on the Castelmore basketball team?”

“Daily practice for hours, games on the weekend? I ate six meals a day.”

“Dad was the captain, right? That’s how you all knew him?”

 _Dad._ Athos darts a look at Aramis, whose plate it seems requires his immediate, undivided attention. Porthos sits straighter in his chair beside him.

“Yes,” John answers, after the pause grows stale. “He was the captain.”

But d’Artagnan won’t let that stand. “In name only. Athos was the real captain.”

Athos waves that away. “Really, John was such a hands-on coach, we didn’t need --”

Louis Jr. interrupts. “So Dad wasn’t the captain?”

“He was,” John corrects.

But d’Artagnan is having none of it. “Honorary captain.”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis quiets.

“What?” And then, to Louis Jr., softer, “your dad didn’t start out the leader he eventually became, is all I’m saying.”

“I don’t understand.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t want to drop it, despite sharp looks from nearly everyone else at the table. “At Castelmore he was city royalty. He was the son of the mayor. Silver platter, I mean --there were obvious perks, everyone knew it.”

“Like marrying Anne,” Porthos mutters.

“That’s not fair,” Anne argues.

D’Artagnan speaks over her. “Like being the captain of a basketball team when he cost us points every time he left the bench.”

Constance kicks him under the table.

“Look,” d’Artagnan argues, pointedly ignoring her. “I’m not speaking ill of the dead. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good guy. He was a shit basketball player, but so what? Except that Athos was the team’s real leader and never got the recognition he deserved.”

“Is that true?” Louis Jr. asks John.

“It’s one way of looking at it. Yes. The core team were these guys here. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan. They were… sometimes the stars just align, everything clicks, what can I say? Louie wanted to be part of that, and playing proved to be out of the question. So I gave Louie another job, title and everything, and it made him feel good. But d’Artagnan has a point. Athos was the real captain.”

Athos hangs his head.

“That’s shitty. D’Artagnan’s right.”

“Louis,” Anne scolds.

But Louis Jr. just rolls his eyes. “Come on, Mom. You’d never let us get away with anything like that.”

Aramis flicks a proud look at Anne, who returns it.

Athos takes over, glaring for a second at d’Artagnan, willing him into silence before turning his attention to Louis Jr. “None of that matters now. We were devoted to your father, just like we were to each other. Deep down, I’d hazard we all still feel the same.”

D’Artagnan exhales a heavy breath.

John picks up the thread. “That was a long time ago. Any distinctions about who did what, at this point…”

Porthos is nodding. “Meaningless.”

 

Even with these palpable layers of tension, hours after his boss’s funeral, John feels good. Proud. It’s what he imagines a patriarch might feel, gathering his brood home. But John knows better than to take any credit for their strength, their honor, and (look at them laughing now, finishing each other’s sentences, leaning shoulder to shoulder like no time has passed) their brotherhood. Anne, though… this is too much to ask of anyone, hosting a weekend like this just days after her husband’s death.

She meets his eyes down the length of the table, over empty plates and glasses smeared with fingerprints. He could dart his gaze away, maybe should, but doesn’t. His face softens, he can feel it, when she looks at him.

 _I can get rid of them, let you off the hook_ , he tries to tell her with nothing but eyes and eyebrows.

 _No,_ she answers with a light grin, blinking slowly, shaking her head the slightest bit, _this is good. Look how happy they are together._

 _Go to bed,_ he insists with a flick of his chin and a knit brow. _I’ll take care of them._

With a deep, punctuating breath, Anne stands. “I’m turning in, but you all stay up if you like.” She lets her eyes wander over their faces. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you came.”

Aramis worries how much of that is meant for him. And just then, she lays her small hand on his shoulder again and squeezes. His eyes fly to Louis Jr., who watches her go.

 

Inside her shower, Anne sets the temperature to scalding.

The boys’ grief, Marie’s grief, community members’, even the fucking florist’s came before hers. But not with them. John is here for her (in a way Louie never was, but she pushes that thought away), Constance is here, all the guys, even Aramis, after so many years.

What this must be like for Aramis…

Her sobs take her by surprise. They come from somewhere deep in her muscles, burn through her until she’s collapsed on the floor of the shower and at least the noise of the water covers her gasps. She cries for Louie -- for the first time, really cries. She mourns his half-lived life, the fifty years at least robbed from him, but she mourns herself, too. She cries for Aramis, for the way she wanted him and the way she stopped, and she cries for John, good, decent John, Louie’s most trusted advisor. John who only refused Louie once and then never again. John, as much a father to Louie as a friend.

How could Anne have let it happen? How did the girl she once was become a woman with children from two different fathers, a woman who lied every day of her adult life, a woman who shut out a man she once wanted to distraction so completely that he had to see his son for the first time across a crowded cathedral? A woman who, even now, longs for a _different_ man, her dead husband’s _employee_ for fuck’s sake, longs for him to stride right into this bathroom, put his hands on her skin and kiss all the pain away.

She was a fraud, all day long, all week. She doesn’t deserve to be called a widow. Were she less of a coward she would have left Louie years ago, would have seized the life she wanted. But would he have died alone then? Would one of the boys have found him? Or some other woman?

 

“Come with me,” Constance murmurs from just behind Aramis’ shoulder, in the kitchen doorway, under the noise of Athos and Porthos arguing about college basketball and John and Louis Jr. drying the dishes that d’Artagnan scrubs.

D’Artagnan watches her go.

Aramis follows her to the master bedroom. He stops in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold. It’s a private space, but they are the oldest of friends; does privacy really have anything to do with it? But the room was Anne’s and Louie’s bedroom. He shouldn’t be there.

“Come sit,” Constance insists, patting the bed next to her. “Please.”

With a forceful breath, he does. “Are you all right?”

“Yup.”

She’s clearly not. “Your cheeks are flushed. Can I get you some ice water?”

“No, I’m… just fine…”

He’s a good man, for all his faults, and thin as he’s gotten since she last saw him, he still has an excellent face. “So.”

“So. I wanted to talk to you about... Um. Wow, this is hard.” Constance nods, sharp and determined. “I’m just going to dive in.”

“Sounds good.”

Still, the seconds tick past, until finally she asks, “did you know d’Artagnan can’t father children?”

Aramis cants his head. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. We still want a child.”

It’s huge and exactly right for them. “That’s wonderful news! You would be an incredible mother. Nurturing and loyal, and d’Artagnan -- playful, energetic, fiercely loving. You’d be perfect parents! I can get you in touch with Catholic Adoption Services up near you, I know some --”

“We’d rather not adopt, actually.” She raises an eyebrow.

Aramis squints, freezes, and all at once the realization crests. “Constance.”

Her determination falls to a rough whisper. “We know you can do it, you’ve done it before.”

“Are you out of your mind? D’Artagnan would kill us both.”

“D’Artagnan’s all for it.”

Aramis’ eyes go wide, then skeptical. “D’Artagnan wants me to have sex with his wife.”

“I mean, he’d rather it wasn't necessary, but yeah. We _both_ want you to give us a child. Come on, you’re practically family already. You’re one of the best men we know.”

His breath stops in his chest. Poor d’Artagnan. But why wouldn’t they ask Athos first? Surely he’d be their first choice.

Constance’s hand is suddenly soft on his knee and warm, even through the fabric of his jeans. She’s always been affectionate with him, but this feels like a try for more. “No one has to know but the three of us.”

“Constance,” Aramis attempts, peering at her pale hand.

“You know I won’t come looking for child support, and your – _our_ child would grow up surrounded by love and family. Couldn’t ask for a better life, Aramis.”

Her face is still cherubic, but there are lines at her eyes, echoes of past smiles. Smiles like this one now, encouraging and hopeful. She’s a marvel -- who wants him to get her pregnant. “And, just to be clear: after tonight, I wouldn’t be needed.”

“Not in the least. After tonight.”

“You haven’t forgotten that I’m a priest? A _celibate_ priest?”

“Something tells me that’s negotiable.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you,” he volleys, and they’re both grinning. It’s not like he didn’t earn every bit of his college reputation. “But I’ve never broken my vow.”

“Honestly?”

“Not once.” His shoulder rises in a sweet, almost girlish shrug. “No one to consider breaking it for.”

“And if there were?”

“I try not to think about it.” But that’s not really what’s stopping him. He stands up, arms folded over his chest, and paces the length of the room once, twice, tracing his arm with tense fingers. “This is the first time I’ve seen Louis Jr. in person. She cut me off entirely, and everything that happened with Marguerite just…” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Point is, I don’t know him. I didn’t watch him grow up. The little things they must have taken for granted: teaching him to tie his shoes, singing him to sleep, hearing his little boy voice, how it changed? Fielding every question he asked about the world, about himself. The delight in his eyes, the smell of his hair. Thousands, millions of moments, Constance, and I got none of them. Not one. You don’t know, you can’t… I _longed_ for him.”

Constance would enfold him in the hug he so obviously needs, but he’s clutching himself so tightly on his own that there’s no room for her.

“You make a child and you’re meant to love it. If you can’t, whatever the reason, it leaves a hole.”

His pain distracts her from her own request – she’s always been this way, caught short by empathy at every turn. “He’s a good kid. The spitting image of you when you were younger, you know. Deadly handsome.”

Aramis mouths the word “yeah,” but all that comes is breath.

“It wouldn’t have to be like that. You could be part of this child’s life. Somehow, uncle Aramis, you’d be welcome. You would know each other.”

But Aramis knows himself too well. He wouldn’t survive a second time. “I’m honored you asked me, truly. And if it was anything else, Constance, really. I would give you a _kidney_. But this. Leaving him behind broke my heart. I can’t do it again.”

Now Constance refuses to let him ache, alone against the far wall. She wraps her arms around him, secure and fond until he unwinds his arms and holds her, too. They rock and breathe.

Eventually, he kisses her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“I mean, I won’t say I’m not disappointed,” she answers, pinching his side as she lets him go. “Anne tells me you’re a monster in the sack.”

 

It’s the cackling that draws Athos to the den. “Is that…?”

“Athos!”

“Flea? You still putting up with this old bag o’ bones?”

“You’re one to talk, old man. Nice hair.”

Flea, after all these years. Flea was Porthos’s childhood friend, informal weekend dorm resident (gender notwithstanding, there was never a question whether she could spend the night), vociferous cheerleader for the Castelmore Varsity Basketball Team. And now, it seems, Facetime companion for Porthos.

“Hey,” Porthos protests as he hands Athos his phone, “that _is_ nice hair, don’t pretend it’s not.”

“Athos, _please,_ give me some dirt. Porthos is being uncharacteristically coy about this weekend of yours.”

“It’s not a weekend. It’s a… funeral coda.”

“So, what? Porthos isn’t being coy, he’s grieving?”

Athos leans back into the futon, still made up like a couch – a cushioned, uncomfortable bench, really. “Something like that. How are you, Flea? It’s been awhile.”

“An unforgivably long time, my deflect-y friend.”

“Deflect-y? Unfair.”

“Then _give me the dirt_.”

“What dirt? We only just got here. How about an update? I can give you an update.”

Porthos leans back in his chair. “I already told her everything.”

“Not everything,” she challenges.

“Did he tell you Constance and d’Artagnan are happily married?”

“He did.” She grins. “Not exactly surprising news, but it’s interesting that’s the first thing you mention.”

Athos ignores whatever that dig is supposed to be. “Our old coach is here, did Porthos mention that?”

“Yup. Come on, you know what I want to know.”

Athos squints. “Aramis?”

“Bingo!”

“Is still a priest.”

“A lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“He is,” Porthos confirms, quietly, typing.

Athos shrugs. “It’s true. He stuck with it.”

“According to who? Him?”

“I believe him. He looks good.”

“I bet he does.”

Porthos groans.

Athos shakes his head. “He looks… like the rest of us.”

“Old? Weird?”

Athos laughs. “No. Just, living. Settled.”

“You people! You make me nuts!”

Porthos huffs, eyes still on his computer screen. “Flea doesn’t believe in settled.”

“After all this time? Surely creature comforts have seduced you by now.”

“She’s in New Mexico, apprenticing with a Navajo weaver.”

“Is that a guest house?” Athos asks, trying to make out what’s behind her head in the picture.

“Tent! Now, tell me about you.”

Athos wilts a little dramatically, just for Flea. “Well. I teach philosophy at the University of Chicago.”

“And?”

“Only philosophy. Not qualified for anything else.”

“ _Noooo_ , and who are you fucking?”

Athos levels a stare that would be withering to anyone less shameless.

“Such a waste.”

Porthos laughs through his nose.

“But there has to have been someone since Anne, right? Please tell me you got over her.”

“You have a freakishly good memory for other people’s business.”

She taps her head. “Steel trap, seriously. You, however, are no help.”

“What? That was dirt! That was good dirt.”

“Talk to me when you have something really filthy to report. Until then, give me back to my boyfriend.”

Athos raises his eyebrows. “He hasn’t been your boyfriend for decades.”

“He will always and forever be my only and best boyfriend. Just like d’Artagnan is yours.”

 

It’s after midnight; John, Louis Jr., and Anne have gone to bed. D’Artagnan sits on the ground in front of Constance, who runs her fingers mindlessly through his hair, gently scraping her nails over his scalp. She can’t see the blissed-out expression he wears, or maybe he’s already fallen asleep. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos talk quietly with her, having progressed from wine to a single malt Porthos found in the back of the pantry.

“I’m going to bed,” Aramis begins out of a sleepy pause. “But first, a toast. To Louie.”

They all raise their glasses except d’Artagnan, whose breath is quickly becoming a snore.

“To Louie, who really was shit at basketball but still did right by the team,” Porthos says.

“Who stepped in when his city needed him,” Constance continues.

“Who was our friend, for better and for worse,” Athos adds.

Ugly, resentful epitaphs bubble to the surface, but Aramis lets them go unsaid. It is all long past. Well and truly over. None of it matters anymore, for either of them. “Resquiescat in pace, Louie.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two: revelations, beers, an island. Some forgiveness. Not enough.  
> Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

Shrapnel-laced movie explosions wake John in his upper bunk. They’re not loud, but the TV they’re coming from is mere feet from his head.

It’s 2:30 in the morning.

He climbs down, takes a piss, and raps lightly on Aramis’ door.

“Yeah, come on in,” Aramis whispers.

D’Artagnan is already upstairs with Aramis, their faces illuminated, then shaded, by the enormous screen. “Hey, coach.”

“What’re you watching?”

Aramis shrugs. “No idea.”

“There are guns and horses and we’ve yet to meet a woman who isn’t a prostitute, so I’m going with Western,” d’Art volunteers. “Can’t sleep?”

John huffs a resentful laugh by way of answer. He sits on the edge of the fold-out.

“Something bothering you?” Aramis asks, still watching the shootout on the screen.

“You mean besides Louie dying?” It’s meant to come off flip, but instead it lands with an almost audible thud.

D’Artagnan turns to John. “You two were close.”

And just like that, John’s eyes well up. He can’t answer that – because it’s more complicated than close or not, and because his breath refuses to move in his chest and his throat is tightening around a sob.

Aramis shuts off the TV and comes around to hold him while d’Artagnan apologizes. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“We’re all upset in our own way,” Aramis soothes. “We’re here, you can let it out.”

“There’s nothing to let out,” John says, trying to sniff it back. “Half the time he was a jackass, and the other half…. Shit, I’m sorry.” There are more tears and a few more sobs.

“He was lucky to have you,” d’Artagnan finally says when the heat of it subsides. He hopes the tinge of jealousy isn’t as obvious as it feels. D’Artagnan would have given just about anything to have John to guide him in the years after college. To catch a glimpse of his pride when things went right, depend on his support when they didn’t. As strong as d’Artagnan knows he can be, he’s not actually all that strong.

Thank goodness Constance understands that and loves him anyway.

Aramis rubs John’s shoulder. “He _was_ lucky. They all were.”

John shakes his head at that.

“No, I mean it.” Aramis looks John right in the eye. “Thank you, for being here. For giving everything you are to them. I see how close you and Louis Jr. are. I see your influence in him, in the way he is. I mean, when I think back to what I was like as a teen --”

John scoffs. “I remember.”

“I wouldn’t have made it without your support, John.”

“None of us would,” d’Artagnan whispers, and John reaches out to squeeze d’Artagnan’s knee. Of course, it’s more complicated than that. There’s Porthos’ resentment, clogging an otherwise clear line. But right now, it doesn’t matter. D’Artagnan will do it on his behalf.

“Thank you,” Aramis tells him, “for being there when I wasn’t.”

John shakes his head again, his eyes still wet and his heart still a storm. Maybe it’s only this: in the dead of night everything good feels bad, and insignificant things suddenly swell to mean everything.

“And Anne, you’ve been her rock,” d’Artagnan continues.

John sinks under a heavy breath. After a frozen moment, Aramis leans back away from him.

“What?” d’Artagnan asks, watching them.

“I’m sorry, Aramis,” John mutters, refusing to look at him.

“Of course,” Aramis breathes, standing up now, backing away a step.

“Nothing has happened. Nothing _will_ happen. You have my word, Aramis.”

Aramis’ chest fills with a deep breath. His shoulders go wide, broad. “I don’t want it.”

“I would never. I just.”

Getting it now, d’Artagnan slumps back into the cushions. “Fuck, really?”

“No, I mean it,” Aramis continues, somehow much larger and more imposing. “John. I can’t be that for her. Even if I wasn’t a priest, we aren’t _that_ anymore, if we ever were. I want the world for her. I’ll always love her. Yes. But not the way she deserves. Think about it, John. Has she ever had the kind of love you could give her? She hasn’t. Not from anyone.” And only then does he soften, kneeling next to John. “If she loves you, this could be it. The _big it_. Don’t fuck it up.”

 

**Friday**

“Who wants to go for a run?”

D’Artagnan, it should be noted, hasn’t had a drop of coffee but he’s already dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt and is bouncing in place, a racehorse behind the gate.

It’s not quite nine in the morning. “I’ll take it easy, I promise. A quick five miles?”

Constance rolls her eyes, hiding her grin behind her full mug.

“Where’s Porthos? He’ll run with me.”

“I heard typing,” Constance explains. “Don’t bother him.”

“Athos? John?”

“Were you always a morning person?” Athos asks, his voice still gritty from sleep. “It’s unseemly.”

John, much the worse for being awake only six hours ago, charges his mug in d’Artagnan’s direction. “Next time.”

“I’ll go,” Anne says.

“You sure?” John asks, just to her.

She winks at him. “This is a gorgeous day and I would love to go for a run. Give me two minutes to get ready. Plus, this way I can get out of grocery shopping.”

 

When Porthos emerges from his room at quarter to ten, arms aloft in victory, only Constance and Aramis are in the kitchen, staring into their coffee mugs.

“I have slain the beast,” he declares. His voice fills the nearly empty house.

“Loud,” Aramis cringes. “How long have you been awake?”

“Woke up at six thirty. Had to fix a tricky bit in the middle and do a final edit. Which I did, and it is finished and sent and I am happy to announce that I am now a free man. Let’s put the fun in funeral.” His coffee poured, he holds his mug up to toast them both before savoring his first sip. “Where is everybody?”

Constance gives him the rundown, almost verbatim what she reported to Aramis ten minutes before: “Anne and d’Artagnan went running, Athos is out by the water I think, and our oldest and youngest travelers are sleeping.”

“You think anyone would mind if I made dinner?”

“Now?” Aramis asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, now, hope you’re hungry, hamburgers for everyone. What I’m making takes time, my friend. And groceries. Lots of groceries.”

“Oh! There’s a list.” Constance twists in her seat to reach the notepad where Anne scribbled a few things. “Knock yourself out.”

“I guess I’m shopping,” Porthos says, leaning against the counter while he reads through the list – _chips, eggs, ~~ketchup,~~ milk, sandwich stuff, vegetables for fuck’s sake, grapes._

“We can take my car,” Aramis volunteers. “Leave in five?”

 

“Ice cream,” a bed-headed Louis Jr. calls out the front door as Porthos climbs into Aramis’ car ten minutes later. “Something with chocolate.”

“It’s too cold for ice cream,” Aramis calls back from the driver’s side.

“ _Wrong_. And mint chocolate chip for Mom.”

“He’s a good kid,” Porthos says, turning the radio down, once they’ve been on the road a few miles. “Requesting his mom’s favorite ice cream? Very considerate.”

“Yeah,” Aramis says, barely audible. “He’s a good kid.”

“How are you not a fucking mess right now?”

“Oh, believe me, I am.”

“Not on the outside.”

“I’m _thisclose_ to leaving.”

Porthos’ heart tightens. “Because of Anne?”

“Because of _him_. Inside my head all I can think is: _I am your dad, you get that from me!_ It’s disconcerting, to say the least.”

“Yeah, that’s not good.”

“Look at his face.” Aramis’ voice is air. “Just.”

“I know. God, he looks exactly like you did.”

“My whole everything just wants to hold him. I want to kiss his hair, I want to press my lips to his forehead and just leave them there forever. Porthos, it…” Aramis swallows. “This is stupid. Anne doesn’t need me here. She needs you guys, her friends. I haven’t been that, for any of you, since seminary at least.”

“Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.” Porthos hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he is. Aramis just got here. _Please._

“I mean it, Porthos. When was the last time we had a real talk?”

“It’s not like we –“ _we_ , not _I_ – “didn’t notice you’d gone MIA. But, you know. We assumed you were busy.”

“For seventeen years? I tell myself it’s just how life is in the clergy – it’s _not yours_ , fundamentally. And it’s true, but honestly? It’s also bullshit.”

It’s not a conversation Porthos wants to have. Blame is only going to send Aramis running. _Keep it light._ “You swear a lot for a holy person.”

Aramis pulls into the parking lot of Orchard Market, taking the turn a bit too fast. “I’m celibate, not dead.”

“Isn’t that essentially the same thing?” Porthos teases.

The parking lot is nearly empty; they park close to the entrance. On their way inside, Porthos grabs a cart from where it’s caught against a curb.

“Look, you’re not leaving.” He says it playfully, flirtatiously even. But underneath, Porthos is all too serious.

“I’m not?”

“Nope. It’s decided.”

The air blasts warm at the entrance, making a memory of the March chill; the stale fluorescent light turns everything two-dimensional.

Aramis stops, turns to Porthos. “Okay.”

“You’ll stay?”

“For you.”

Porthos couldn’t stop his grin if his life depended on it. “Bet your ass ‘for me.’”

They head for the produce section. Porthos’ heart is full. This right here, this is undoubtedly the high point of the weekend. If he went home with only this one small trip to the store to keep, that would be enough.

Aramis picks a grape from a bunch and pops it in his mouth.

“That’s stealing,” Porthos mutters, just loud enough for Aramis to hear him. “Shame on you.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Aramis volleys back.

Porthos puts that bunch and one more in their cart. “Some role model you are.”

“Look at you, cleaning up after me.”

“’S why we never got married,” Porthos quips before his brain can stop him. _Fuck_.

Aramis laughs and grabs another grape. “Not the only reason.”

“Not wrong there,” Porthos forces. “Now, pick out some chips. And see if you can _not eat any_.”

Aramis flashes him a smile that takes years off Porthos’ life.

 

“I didn’t know you run,” d’Art says, though frankly, he would barely call this jogging even. But she seems content and they can talk at this speed, so he doesn’t push.

“I haven’t in years,” Anne answers. “But it feels good to be out here. Free.”

“Grief can be stifling, I’m sure.”

She speeds up a little. “Yeah.”

“And you --”

“Can we talk about anything else? Literally anything.”

“Sure, sure.” And of course now d’Artagnan can’t think of a single thing that isn’t a sensitive topic. His brain keeps offering him barbs: the city, Louis Jr., Aramis, the lake house. Her entire life is a live wire right now.

“Or we could just run,” Anne suggests, a little breathless, as her stride stretches out.

She runs ahead of him, sprints, for miles. D’Artagnan thinks he can hear her crying but he doesn’t check, just keeps her pace. Sometimes that’s all we need, he reminds himself: someone to keep our pace.

 

“Can I take the boat to the island?” Louis Jr. asks Anne.

“I don’t know,” she answers. That was something the boys did with Louie. He’d take them, for hours, and she would curl up on the couch or sit out on the balcony and read in blessed silence. She doesn’t even know where the oars are.

Her eyes glaze with tears. Why did she let Louie take over so much? Why didn’t she have her hand in everything? How will she ever catch up?

Athos notices. With one warm hand on her back, he turns to Louis Jr. “I can help,” he volunteers. “What do you need?”

Louis Jr. ticks off a few things. Anne watches and the tears keep coming, but as she watches they become a reaction to Louis Jr. growing up, taking on strength and responsibility.

They did all right, Anne and Louie. For all their faults, they did all right.

Anne hates to be so vulnerable to the least emotional breeze.

Aramis comes in just as Louis Jr. is leading Athos to the garage. “Wanna come along?” he asks Aramis.

“Where to?” he asks, looking past him to Anne and her red-rimmed eyes.

“Our island.”

“Our island?” Athos repeats. “You have an island.”

“It’s very small.” Anne waves away Athos’ incredulous smirk. “It’s a long story.”

“You should come,” Louis Jr. urges them both. “It’s really cool, you’d like it.”

Aramis wants to say yes, despite how hard it would be just to spend the time with him. He can’t imagine denying him. But he knows it’s Anne’s decision. “What do you think?” Aramis asks her.

“We can all go,” she says, putting on a smile. “Boat fits four.”

She doesn’t trust him.

 

The island amounts to not much more than a stable pile of debris, built up over decades or more. It’s the size of a small neighborhood park. The ground is soft, covered with the detritus of chaotic, volunteer forest. It smells dark and wet.

Near the center is a rustic cabin. “Off the grid,” Louis Jr. explains, “so we put in a composting toilet.”

Athos nods, tries to make his lips into a smile, and reminds himself not to need the bathroom while they’re over here. He follows Louis Jr. inside the cabin; Aramis trails behind him. “Eventually, we’re planning to rig it with solar panels, and if we put a rain barrel out we’d probably be set.”

“Did you make this?” Aramis asks, petting the thick wood slats of a chair in the corner.

“Dad did.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Youtube. I wanted to try it. So he did a little research.”

“You made this together?”

“At first? Turns out making furniture is hard. And boring.”

Athos chuckles. “Hey, the seal on these windows is failing. Looks like there’s water getting in.”

“Yeah, we need to…” Louis Jr. stops. “Philip and I, I guess we could try to fix them. And the door. Or we could just let it go. Let the whole thing fall apart.”

“Would your dad want that?”

Louis Jr. huffs. “No.”

“Not everybody is lucky enough to have a monument like this. Think about it before you let it go.”

Louis Jr. nods for a few seconds, lost in his own head, before he agrees out loud. “Yeah,” he says. Then again. “Yeah.”

Louis Jr. takes him through the rest of the build. Aramis goes to look for Anne, who never made it inside. He finds her standing on the rocky shore, gazing back across the lake at the house.

His footing slips; the noise betrays him. “I’m sorry, I was just --”

“No, don’t go.” She motions for him to join her. “Please.”

The whole weekend is a landmine. What’s one more step?

“I’ve made so many mistakes, Aramis.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Not us. For everything that’s happened, I don’t regret us. Never have.”

Aramis looks out over the lake with her, at the loons floating together on the surface. Regret is such a small, simple word.

“Sometimes I hate myself for staying with Louie.”

At the seminary, there were workshops on counseling, how to be a good listener. How to be present yet uninvolved, a vessel for help. Aramis can’t remember a single element of those lessons right now. Every word aches. “Anne.”

“I have this iron will. It’s stronger than any other part of me. It’s stronger than anyone else’s I’ve ever known.”

“That, I remember.”

“I saw the line on the pregnancy test and in that instant I knew I would marry him. I didn’t love him more – just, differently. But you were so smooth. So available, to everyone. You mowed through the women’s dormitory freshman year. And sophomore year. And then, when you and I… I think you cared about me. But you were always holding back, even when we were alone.”

She knew. Somehow, she knew.

“I wasn’t your world, and with a baby on the way, I needed to be someone’s world.”

“I could have. I could have made you both my world.”

“Maybe. But Louie and I understood each other. We’d been engaged for three years already. He was safe.”

“I couldn’t believe how quickly it all happened.”

“I was pregnant. I didn’t have a moment to lose. Even if it ruined your life.”

“That’s overstating things.”

“You ran away to the seminary, you gave up everything.”

“It made sense at the time. And look, it worked out. You were happy with Louie. Weren’t you?”

It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it glimpse, but he sees it. Maybe there’s room for John in her life after all.

She changes the subject. “Louis looks exactly like you did.”

“That seems to be the consensus, yeah.”

“I’m sorry I kept him from you.”

Aramis can’t even begin to respond to that.

“I wanted to bring him when he was little. After I put your thing with Marguerite in perspective. I got as far as packing him up to drive out to Detroit to see you, more than once.”

There are no words. How many almosts are enough to kill a person? Maybe just one.

“Do you hate me?”

“I could never hate you.” The words are reflexive and hollow, before thought, but he hears them echo between them, out here in the island’s still silence, and he knows they’re true. He turns to her, deliberate and soft, and says them again. “I could never hate you, Anne.”

“It’s not too late, for you and Louis.”

“Please don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Anne.”

“He’s already asked me questions about you, just since yesterday. There’s… something about you he’s drawn to. No surprise there.”

Aramis shakes his head.

“Be his friend. I trust you.”

“All evidence to the contrary, chaperoning our outing today.” He tries to say it lightly but he can see it cuts all the same.

“I know. You’re right. And I shouldn’t have. Because I do trust you. I do.”

“I don’t think --”

“He’s a good kid, Aramis.”

Aramis gasps, a laugh that nearly gives way to tears. “I know. You did a good job.”

“Me and Louie,” Anne says, an apology.

Aramis repeats it, a benediction. “You and Louie.” Gratitude. Forgiveness.

 

“You’ve been holding out on us, Porthos,” d’Artagnan muses as he saunters into the kitchen, hair still wet from his shower.

Porthos is chopping a carrot. An onion is sautéing in a cast iron pan. Beans are boiling in a stock pot.

“You cook?”

“Of course I cook.”

“I mean, you _cook_. This is a serious operation. What are you making?”

“Cassoulet. Adapted.”

D’Artagnan leans over the pot, breathes in the steam. “Porthos, this is amazing.”

“Not yet, but it’s going to be a French stew. You’ll love it.”

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to where something tan is bubbling in a bowl.

“That is how we survive without a sourdough starter.”

“Sourdough? You’re making bread. Fuck, you’re a magician.”

Porthos turns to look at wide-eyed d’Artagnan. “No. _You’re_ making bread. I’m teaching you how.”

 

“I can’t get over how weird it is,” Louis Jr. says, meeting Aramis out in front of the cabin.

Aramis traces the lines of a dry twig with his thumb. “What is?”

“You, all of you, knew each other. You knew my mom.”

 _Breathe._ “I did.”

“And my dad.”

“Yeah. Less,” Aramis admits.

“What was she like?”

Aramis wonders, in the moment, how much he will say. And if he’ll eventually be able to look Louis Jr. full in the face. He settles for leaning beside him against the wall. “She was smart. Calm. Sensitive. She was kind of regal. She hasn’t really changed.”

“Did she always act old?”

 _Only after we made you._ “Older than the rest of us, yeah.”

“What about my dad?”

“He never acted old,” Aramis quips, and they both chuckle. “He was a good guy.” Aramis tries to think of more to say, but the pause becomes a silence and soon all Aramis can add is, “I was really closer to your mom.”

“And now you’re a priest?”

“I am.”

“Is it hard?”

“Being a priest?” Aramis tries to face him but finds himself crossing his arms at the same time. Protecting himself. “Not really.”

“Not the main stuff. I mean like, with your family. Do they understand?”

Aramis’ brow furrows. “Are you thinking of becoming a priest, Louis?”

He shrugs and is suddenly, clearly, all child. Aramis can see it, spooling out like home movies: basketball games, scraped knees, skateboarding, best friends, big questions.

This weekend is such a painful gift. Aramis sends up gratitude, beaming from his heart like a light into heaven.

“Are you worried how your mom would react?”

“I guess. Dad would have been proud, I think. Marie would be thrilled.”

“You call her Marie? Not grandma?”

“Oh, she hates grandma. Says it makes her seem ancient.”

Aramis smiles an _ah_.

“It would be hard for Mom, I think.”

“You two are close.”

Louis Jr. nods.

“You could still be close.” But Aramis knows that’s a lie. Or a stretch, at least. “You have to be willing to make sacrifices. Big ones.”

“Like you did?” Louis Jr. asks, and it feels like he knows. He can’t, he doesn’t, but that intuition, that intimacy… he would make a good priest, actually.

 

A few hours later Constance has jars open, lettuce leaves drying on towels, bread slices laid out in tidy rows, cheese slices in a pile. It’s a whole kitchen sandwich operation.

“You don’t have to do that,” Anne says in the doorway.

“And you don’t have to play host every second. Let me help. You, sit.”

She sinks into a chair at the table. “The guys are out in the garage. Have you seen John?”

“He took Louis back to the island. Sent them with the first round of these,” she assures Anne. “Said they were going to fix the door and a few windows?”

Anne stares into the living room.

“How are you doing? Is this too much? Do you want us to leave?”

“Actually, could you stay forever?”

Constance turns around to plant a fond kiss on the crown of Anne’s head.

“We hadn’t had sex for years.”

Constance lowers herself into the chair beside Anne’s. “You and Louie?”

“We stayed together for the boys. And for, I don’t know, what it would look like to the town.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“That things were so bad between us? We were nearly strangers. Didn’t even share a bed anymore. I told him it was because of his snoring. I keep thinking, what would have happened had he died in his sleep? And I wasn’t there to notice? I haven’t been a wife in anything but name for so long. I feel like a fraud.”

“You’re not. He was your husband, and the way you felt about him – the way you feel now – that’s only your business.”

“I’m terrible. He just died, he _just died,_ and I don’t think I ever really loved him. Not the way a wife is supposed to love her husband. I feel like I lost… a brother? An old friend, at most. I feel so _guilty_ – I’m a fucking mess.”

“You’ve got us to help you make it through, and John --”

Anne sucks in a deep breath. “Right, John. John only makes it worse.” And she wilts forward onto her spread hands.

“I knew it.” Constance sounds far too happy. She practically sings it.

“Stop it. No, there’s nothing to know. It’s not an option.”

“Says your head.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“What about the rest of you?”

“I don’t have to listen to the rest of me.”

“I know, I know. But if you did. Come on. If you two had no history, no context. If you had never been married. Just breezed into town and met him, out of nowhere.”

“Between you and me? I would ride him into next week.”

A laugh whoops out of Constance. “He has aged well, hasn’t he?”

“My god, he should be illegal.”

“I’d climb on too if I wasn’t otherwise occupied.”

Anne swallows. Stares at her hands. “You could, you know. You should.”

“What? Me? Absolutely not.”

“Why? He’s the perfect choice. He’s single, available. Delicious.”

“He’s here for you, not for me.”

“Just to help. As a friend.”

“Please tell me you’re being dense on purpose.”

“No, Constance, really he’s just a good man. Just, thoroughly kind and decent. That’s why he’s here, that’s why he joined Louie’s team in the first place --”

“I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Anne shuts her eyes.

“Have you honestly missed it? That man loves you.”

Anne’s face goes slack. “So? It’s impossible.”

“Think what you want. But I’m not going to waste my time asking him when he’s already only yours.”

“Constance --”

“Anyway, I’ve already decided I’m asking Porthos.”

“Not Athos?”

“No. Porthos.” Her smile is sweet, her eyes a little wild. “Our kid would have the most devastating curls, think of it.”

“Isn’t he gay?”

“Gay, schmay, his equipment works, as far as I know. And with him, it won’t be emotionally complicated.”

“Not like with Athos.”

“ _Stop._ Porthos will say yes, we’ll do the thing, zero difficulties.”

 

After sandwiches – eaten standing, bites between jokes – Athos sits down beside Anne at the table. “Would you mind if we borrowed the bikes for a little while?”

“Do they work?”

“They seem to, now that d’Artagnan found the pump. Would it be all right if the four of us took them out for a bit?”

 _The four of us_. Now, that sounds good. It’s good to know there’s a _four of us_ again. A team. Makes her feel safe.

Makes her feel the time she’s lost.

She nods, doesn’t trust herself to speak at this moment.

Athos leaves her be.

They ride out in a clump but thin into a line soon enough. D’Artagnan leads them down the route Anne showed him on their run, out to the paved path that traces several of the small lakes in the area and eventually, she said, crosses the entirety of Illinois.

Porthos passes him, passes them all, shifting his bike to the hardest gear and pumping his legs like a sprinter. Aramis is right behind him, smile wide and heart pounding. Athos and d’Artagnan share an indulgent grin and let them go, settling into a comfortable pace side by side.

“This is…” d’Artagnan begins, and he means to talk about how right it is, Porthos and Aramis back together, how good it feels to be surrounded by the men who made d’Artagnan who he is. He wants somehow to get across how much Athos means to him, not just right now, how much he misses having Athos by his side but somehow still a few steps ahead. How he will never stop needing that no matter what happens.

But the words are too big for the moment. And when Athos looks at him, waiting for him to finish, that rare, special openness in his face that d’Artagnan doesn’t remember him showing to anyone else, d’Artagnan can only shake his head.

“It is,” Athos agrees, and they ride.

The path parallels a highway for a mile or so before they reach a roadside bar. Aramis and Porthos are already there, off their bikes and breathing hard, when Athos and d’Artagnan glide into the rocky parking lot. “Porthos was thirsty,” Aramis explains.

“Me? Soon as we saw this place Aramis said, and I quote, _race you to beer_.”

“Who won?” Athos asks, and leans his bike against the front window.

“Please,” Porthos scoffs.

It’s dark and warm inside, lit mostly by neon beer ads and a few dim sconces. D’Artagnan buys a round while the others collapse into chairs around a corner table. “So, tell us all about it,” d’Artagnan asks, handing Aramis a bottle. “What’s it like, wearing the collar?”

“A little itchy,” is Aramis’ answer, punctuated by a swallow.

Porthos watches him drink. _That neck. Fuck._

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes while the others laugh – a lighter, happier laugh than anything they’ve shared this weekend. “Seriously. I’ve never known a priest before. Tell us what it’s really like.”

Aramis looks to Porthos and Athos for support – they can’t all want to hear about this. Surely he can get off the hook. But no, they’re both waiting for Aramis. “It’s work. Different now that I don’t have a regular post. That was a grind: it was what I imagine running a franchise feels like. Keep all the balls in the air, make some surface decisions but nothing is really yours to decide.”

“What prompted you to leave?”

“I’m just one of thousands of moving parts. First they moved me to an interim position to fill in for a priest who’d been removed for misconduct.”

“Awful,” Athos murmurs. “But a compliment to you, I assume.”

“Well, my church was stable and this place – he had run it into the ground, preyed on the parishioners’ trust, it was ugly. They knew I could turn it around, remake connections. Trust was crucial.”

“That’s an enormous responsibility,” Porthos breathes.

Aramis’ gaze flicks to Porthos. “Yeah. So I settled them down at St. Aloysius and at the same time got involved with a multi-denominational counseling center in Detroit. Now _that_ ,” he says, taking a swig of his beer, then another, “that place is amazing. Once they had someone permanent for St. Aloysius, they started me floating as sort of a diocesan consultant. I’m getting to know parishes all over Michigan.”

“Who do you counsel? At the center?” Athos asks.

“Queer and trans kids, high school, some younger, a few older. Foster kids aging out of the system, homeless, just trying to figure themselves out without hate. There’s a team of clergy and counselors. Rachel, this fantastic rabbi, two Buddhist monks, a couple of protestant pastors, a few social workers. ‘S good to have a team.”

Porthos watches Aramis, the way his eyes soften when he starts talking about them.

“And the kids?” d’Artagnan prompts.

“They need love from the bottom up. Some of them don’t understand trust, haven’t felt it, not from an adult. They’ve been sexualized too young, or they’re afraid of it, afraid of themselves. Working with them, I’ve seen love you wouldn’t believe. Feats of unconditional love, like fountains. They come from so little and they give so much.”

Athos nods.

“Not all of them. People are people, and these, some of them, are hard people. But some…. There was this kid, Luca. Bisexual. Lots of sex, very young. Luca came in when she was seventeen, came onto everyone. Came onto me.”

“Can you blame her? I can barely contain myself,” d’Artagnan teases.

Aramis smiles, winks, continues. “Luca didn’t know which way was up. We talked some, but we played basketball, went running, took walks together. Bought groceries for the center, planned the group therapy sessions, activities. Luca was my informal assistant. I vowed to be there and only asked that she try not fucking anyone, just for a few months. Not because God gave a shit, not because it was wrong in any way. Just to give her a chance to clear her head, to be whole and real in herself. And I was there – when she was shitty, when she lashed out. When she grew. I gave her responsibility and love and at first it was hard for her, sure. Sex was armor and now she was bare.” Aramis hesitates, wipes off the condensation where it’s gathering above the label. He sniffs, sharp and decisive. “I saw myself in her. It was healing, for me, helping her. Luca was me.” Aramis chuckles then, a dark sound, and holds the bottle up for a sip. “Turns out I wasn’t the first queer kid to use sex to hide from the truth,” he says, and drinks.

 _Queer._ The sound in the room goes fuzzy and dull in Porthos’ ears. _To use sex to hide from the truth._ His gaze meets Athos’, whose eyes widen just enough.

D’Artagnan’s head falls heavy between his shoulders under the weight of it.

Porthos came out to them individually, quietly. He brought Robert around for drinks with Athos when they were still in their early twenties, maybe not even two years out of college. Robert – precise, tidy Robert, who fit in his arms so perfectly, who lied about everything. Athos shook Porthos’ hand at the end of the night, looked him in the eye and told him _I’m happy for you_. That gave Porthos the strength to eventually bring Robert to dinner at Constance and d’Artagnan’s. He and Robert were nearly done by then. Porthos knew it but didn’t want to face it. Constance was warm and generous; Robert, less so. Constance kissed Porthos’ cheek and said _just not this one, okay?_

That was enough for Porthos, as far as official coming-out events went. He has lived, and loved, out in the open. He posts happy pictures of himself with the men he dates – no one for a few years now, but he doesn’t keep them secret.

Not like Aramis. _Jesus._

Athos holds his bottle over the middle of the table. “Sounds like you’ve found your calling,” he says, clinking the bottle when Aramis mirrors Athos’ display.

 

Athos and d’Artagnan park their bikes and head inside the house. Aramis stays to help Porthos put them all back.

Porthos wishes Aramis would follow them into the house. He hasn’t been able to breathe properly since the bar. Porthos rode hard enough to leave them all in the dust just to get away from him, and it only made his breathing worse.

“It’s your thighs,” Aramis says, putting away the bike pump. “You’ve got those fantastic sprinter thighs.”

Porthos bites the inside of his cheek. _Really? We’re going to talk about my thighs?_

Aramis stills, letting his hand rest on the tool cabinet. “Something’s wrong.”

Porthos shakes his head.

“You can talk to me.”

“Yup,” Porthos says, barely opening his lips, as if the rest of the words in his head would spill out of his mouth if he weren’t careful.

“Porthos, please,” Aramis says, quieter, almost a whisper and saturated with worry.

Porthos’ eyes fly to his, they can’t not, not after that _tone_.

Then Aramis chuckles, out of nowhere, and looks past Porthos into the trees. “I had such a crush on you freshman year.”

 _What?_ How is he supposed to take that? Aramis is laughing. Like it’s fucking hilarious. Like the past is unimaginably opaque. “Crazy, huh?” Porthos says instead of _screw you, this is my_ life _you’re playing with._

And it sits there between them, this weird, orphaned thought that neither of them understands.

 

Once they get back from the island – “it’s a good project, glad to help,” John says, and lays a freshly washed hand on Anne’s shoulder -- Louis Jr. volunteers to help with the dinner preparation. It amounts to cutting up vegetables for the salad and following Porthos’ directions for a gremolata, which Louis Jr. has never heard of but which turns out may be his favorite food thing ever. Porthos is sure and graceful in the kitchen. He doesn’t pause. He tastes, thinks (eyes closed), and adds what’s needed: fresh herbs to the cassoulet, salt to the vinaigrette. He forms the dough into four baguettes, slashes them across their tops without hesitation, and slides the dutch oven onto the stove to make room for them inside the oven.

Mostly, Louis Jr. watches. Later, he notices he’s not the only one. Athos and d’Artagnan are on the other side of the kitchen door, starting on the wine and peeking at the operation. John and Aramis are in the living room chatting too quietly to hear, with not quite a full view but enough to catch the gist. Anne and Constance are elsewhere, the only ones who aren’t consumed by the sight of Porthos in a half apron (thankfully unruffled), a hand towel over his shoulder, a flour handprint on his right pant leg.

The smell of baking bread draws them all finally to the table. Without any direction from Porthos, the table is set – a collaborative effort – and populated. When she gets off the phone with Philip, Anne lights a few candles; Athos pours more wine. There are cloth napkins tonight and quiet murmurs of appreciation at the homey, rich scents from the kitchen.

Just by cooking for them – not _just_ , this is serious, sumptuous food – Porthos has made them all happier, calmer. Before anyone has eaten a bite, he’s given them the pleasures of scent and warmth and anticipation. Louis Jr. sets it in his mind: there’s more than one way to help people. He could love doing this.

When the bread is done – and d’Artagnan has made a frankly pornographic noise of hunger and delight – Porthos comes to the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, unties his apron, and surveys the table. “You ready to eat?” he asks, already grinning.

Maybe this is all Porthos needs from them. Family. Nothing more.

Louis Jr. and d’Artagnan help Porthos carry the food in. Porthos knows it will be spectacular – he’s seen to it, fostered flavor and texture with every step. The bread has a crisp, golden crust, the cassoulet is rich with depth and complexity, the salad bright and fresh. D’Artagnan groans, Athos shakes Porthos’ hand, Anne sets down her napkins and begins a round of applause that they all take up. All including John, who eats twice as much as he normally would because Porthos made it, star jock Porthos and look at him now: capable, self-sufficient, using his excellent mind, a writer of all things. There are guys John played college ball with who never learned to write a coherent sentence. Whatever Porthos thinks of him, John saved Porthos from that life – this is the proof -- and he’ll never regret it.

Conversation bubbles up with the second wine pour. Constance asks about the island.

“It was Dad’s idea,” Louis Jr. begins.

Aramis is getting used to hearing that.

“He wanted it to be, like, a frontier experience. Building from the ground up. Our own little country.”

Constance wants this. _This._ She wants d’Artagnan to have someone to love like this. She looks around the table while Louis Jr. talks, sees them all giving him their undivided attention, a table full of family, all of them. Their kid could have this, too.

She blinks back tears.

“We probably made a hundred boat trips of just lumber that first summer. A hundred the first month. We were outside, the trees weren’t quite as tall and thick so the sun beat down on us but I totally didn’t care. Dad and Philip were lobsters but I loved it. Remember how tan I got?”

Anne’s smile is soft. “I do.”

“Dad let us do pretty much everything except use the circular saw. We had to cut all the wood here at the house, so there was a ton of planning. I didn’t mind that, either.”

And something about that catches. Aramis watches Louis Jr. tear up, feels some part of himself drain out at the sight of it. Anne is at her son’s side before the first tear falls, holding him, “I know, I know,” and when the flood starts she leads him to his room, where they stay.

“I could have guessed that was a sensitive topic,” Constance says once they’ve gone. “I’m sorry.”

“Everything is a sensitive topic right now,” Athos argues, gently. “And he’s been a remarkably restrained, mature kid. This isn’t your fault.”

Aramis gives Constance’s hand a squeeze, then changes the subject. “Porthos, where did you learn to cook like this?”

Porthos is pretty sure Aramis doesn’t know he’s gay. How he could have missed it… but then, Porthos wasn’t exactly out in college. There were guys – a few, mostly disappointing, that Porthos never brought around the team. Guys that weren’t Aramis but looked like him in some way: the same build, the same hair (close, no one had his mane), something nearing the dark allure of his eyes. Porthos chalked it up to having a type.

A decision then. A crossroads. Porthos could tell a scrubbed version of the truth – got really into French cooking about two years ago, did some research, worked with a chef for a while – and avoid dealing with the reaction of newly-uncloseted-yet-still-celibate Aramis.

Or he could tell the truth: Youssef.

His forehead goes flush, his fingers cold. Just the thought of lying, even by omission, makes him nauseous. No, he’s been living free from this particular secret for too long to go back now, especially with these, his best friends. Aramis can deal with it however he needs to.

“I learned from Youssef.”

“The chef,” Constance sighs, “of course! Are you still seeing him?”

Porthos will not look at Aramis. “He moved back to Algiers… May of 2014. I tried to change his mind.”

“You didn’t consider going with him? I remember you two were serious.”

Porthos’ face is radiating heat. And he thinks he might know what it’s like to die of pneumonia, having not taken a deep breath since Constance’s first question.

“We were.” _Breathe. Release the death grip on your knife._ “Thought about it. But. Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry, Porthos,” Athos says.

John’s eyes crinkle at the edges when they meet Porthos’. John didn’t know either. Porthos might have told him, if things had gone differently there at the end of senior year. Well, he knows now. John nods, and his face is sad and something else at the same time.

“You’re gay?” Aramis’ voice is faint, pale. Across the table from Porthos, his eyes are forest dark.

D’Artagnan chuckles. “You didn’t know?”

“You sequester yourself for seventeen years,” Constance chides, but with a playful spark, “you’re gonna miss a few revelations.” Then, turning deliberately to Porthos, “well, God bless Youssef, because this was delicious. Unless he broke your heart. Then he can go to hell.”

He didn’t, quite.

Athos leans back in his chair. “Tell me you learned some Algerian recipes, too.”

“I make his shakshuka,” Porthos tells them, willing himself to relax, “and it will change your mind about breakfast. And dinner. And lunch.”

D’Artagnan gives him his brightest, most hopeful smile.

“I just made you dinner! Next time. Come out to Boston.”

D’Artagnan turns his enthusiasm on Constance. “Don’t we have a deposition we have to take in the northeast somewhere?”

“Not that we can’t do over skype, my love. We aren’t made of money.”

John chuckles. “I just have to say: I’m so proud of you. All of you. It’s good to see you grown up and successful. Really, really good.”

“To coach,” d’Artagnan announces, holding up his empty wine glass.

“You can’t toast with no wine,” Athos insists, and pours a few sips worth into all of their glasses. Even Porthos’, the last to join the crowd. “Now, go.”

“To coach,” d’Artagnan begins again.

 _We couldn’t have done it with you. You were the glue. You raised us all. More like a father than a father. The best of all of us_.

Nothing is right. He juts his chin in frustration.

“To coach,” Athos echoes, meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes.

 

After dinner, Athos takes the dutch oven, almost empty now, into the kitchen. Constance, d’Artagnan, and Anne bring in the plates, butter, salad bowl; Aramis and Porthos are left standing alone, across from each other at the table.

“Surprise,” Porthos says limply. “Seems we both know how to hide in plain sight.”

“But you weren’t hiding.”

“Not recently. In college? A little. Not from everyone.”

“From me?”

The way Aramis asks it, equal parts hurt and hopeful, turns Porthos’ face into (he’s sure) a transparent expression of every ounce of want in him. _I wanted heart-breakingly uninterested you. Your lips, God, your arms pulling me down over you, I wanted to give you… Want. Still._ (His face changes again, he can feel the danger as it opens even more.) _I want you._

“I didn’t know,” Aramis murmurs, and Porthos knows he'll worry that sentence like a bead in his pocket for months.

“Porthos?” Constance calls from the kitchen. “Do you have a second?”

 

She leads Porthos into the den, his space – Aramis was so uncomfortable in hers (Anne’s. Anne’s and Louie’s, there were layers and layers to his discomfort). Maybe asking in here won’t make things easier but then again, if it does it’s worth a shot.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he asks her.

She tugs him down to the futon mattress. “You’re going to want to say no to this and I can understand that but I’m going to hold out for a more reasoned reaction.”

“Okay,” he says, squinting at her but still, because he can’t _not_ with her, smirking. “Say no to what?”

“I want you to get me pregnant.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just listen and don’t say no yet.”

Porthos can feel his body tightening into itself. Has she learned nothing from Anne and Aramis? This kind of shit is only ever a very bad idea.

“D’Artagnan can’t father children. We both want a child and we want it to be _ours_ , as much as it can be. So, mine. With someone we love and trust. Someone who is already family.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“ _You’re insane_.”

“I know I’m not your type.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t do it if you wanted to, if you could get yourself worked up in the right way.”

“I guess, but that’s not how it works.” He can’t seem to stop shaking his head. “Why me? Why not Athos? If d’Artagnan’s going to bow out for anyone, it would be him. Did he say no?”

“I haven’t asked him.” Constance slides closer, runs her hand up the arm Porthos is using to brace himself on the mattress. “I’m asking you.”

“Constance.” He lifts her hand off of him, sets it in her lap. “No.”

“No, you don’t want me to touch you?” she asks, brazenly hopeful.

“No, I can’t do this for you.”

“Of course you can. Think about it: no strings attached. No commitment of any kind. Or, if you want, there could be. We’re very open, we understand this is hard.”

“Hard? Are you kidding? This is --”

“Insane?”

“I can’t even get my head around it.”

She studies him then. “Is this about Aramis?”

That stops him short.

No. It’s about him being a gay man and not wanting to fuck his friend’s wife. It’s about needing time to consider a request to become a father, maybe years and years. It’s about never thinking he’d have this option, about not having his father around when he was a kid. And it’s about boundaries, for fuck’s sake, and protocols, ways to handle this that are anonymous and _not weird_.

It’s not about Aramis.

“Why would you say that?” Porthos asks her, cramming the words together, his lips tight over his teeth.

“Why should anything have changed?”

 _Of course it’s about Aramis._ Porthos’ face is a door that won’t shut. At least it’s Constance seeing right into his soul and no one else.

“Tell him,” she urges. The softest voice.

“He’s a _priest_.”

“I don’t think that matters.”

“You just don’t see roadblocks, do you?”

Constance shrugs.

“You’re amazing, did you know that? You really are. I love you.”

Constance lifts their hands to press a kiss to his knuckle. Under her eyelashes, her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Enough to fuck me?”

He slips one hand out from hers to palm the nape of her neck, pull her close, and kiss the crown of her head. “Nope.”

 

After Louis Jr. falls asleep, Anne finds John alone on the balcony, leaning against the side railing, bracing his arms on the grainy, weathered wood while he stares out over the dark lake to the island.

“Not much of a house, is it?” Anne apologizes. “More of a shack. But Louie and the boys had plans for it.”

John exhales. His chest rises, falls. The rest of him doesn’t move at all.

This, his stillness, is part of what Anne loves about him.

 _Loves._ She pushes that aside.

His stillness, the calm at his center. He is good, and he is safe. She steps outside into the chill and leans against the railing beside him, in front of his arm. All he’d have to do is curl his arm around her back and he’d be holding her.

All she’d have to do is let her head fall gently on his shoulder.

She sinks back until she feels his arm strong behind her. _Hold me,_ she thinks, as loudly as she can. Her eyelids fall closed. _Hold me._

His arm curls around her. His cool hand curves around her arm, rubs over her elbow twice and stays.

She lets her head fall gently on his shoulder and feels it, for the first time in as long as she can remember. Stillness.

 

Now it’s Constance curled up and d’Artagnan soothing her as she burrows under his arm, slowly. His eyelids flutter closed; he presses his lips to her forehead, long and sweet, and threads his fingers through her curls.

Someone’s phone buzzes – Porthos’ – and after a grin and a swipe, a distinctive voice climbs right out of the distant past.

“Hi, beautiful.”

“Flea?” Aramis asks Athos, quietly. He nods, nonchalant except for his eyes.

“Caught me with everyone. You know how I hate to share you.”

“Lies, you love it. Pass me around!”

Porthos tosses the phone to d’Artagnan, beside him. “Hi, Flea!”

“Puppy! Look at you. You’re a full grown dog now.”

“Puppy, haven’t heard that for a while. How are you?”

“Dusty. You?”

“Great. Not dusty. Why are you dusty?”

“The southwest has the corner on dust. I mean, pretty dust – it’s this orangey red like everything is a little bit on fire – but still, there’s a layer of grit between your teeth that’s hard to get used to.”

“She’s learning to weave,” Athos explains when d’Artagnan’s confused expression doesn’t lift.

“So, anything juicy to report?”

D’Artagnan shrugs. “Not really. I mean, the big sad you must already know.”

“You guys, I swear. I can _feel_ it. There is some serious shit going down and nobody’s owning up to it.”

Athos darts a look at Aramis.

“What?” Aramis returns, playfully defensive.

“Is that Aramis? Give me to Aramis.”

Porthos grabs for the phone but d’Artagnan’s too fast.

“Flea. It’s good to see you.”

“You look great. And weird. You all look fucking weird.”

“You, however, are still gorgeous.”

“Quit flirting with me. Man of the cloth, my ass.”

Aramis’ face spreads in a wide, easy smile.

“You treat my boyfriend well, you understand? He may be hard on the outside, but his interior is all goo.”

He looks over the phone at Porthos, who is clearly twisted in knots, half out of his seat with anxiety over their conversation. “’S what I’ve heard,” Aramis simmers, still smiling.

“He told you?!” She lets out a sigh; her eyes close for a second. “He told you. Fucking finally.”

“That he’s gay?” Aramis waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“Um.”

“What.”

“Nothing,” she says, making her lips a thin line. “Turn the phone toward Porthos.”

Aramis does as he’s told. Porthos sticks his tongue out at the screen.

“Now, pass me to Athos,” she orders. “I like this, it's kinky.”

“Hello again, Flea.” Athos is the picture of amused patience.

“D’Artagnan looks the best out of all of you, wouldn’t you agree? He still has that excellent hair.”

“Slightly less of it, to be honest,” Constance mutters.

Athos doesn’t say anything, but his withering glare could burn a hole through the screen.

“ _Fine._ But look, I don’t have time to waste on navel-gazers. I need action. Call me when you have something to report.”

“You called Porthos,” Athos reminds her.

“That’ll teach me to lower my expectations. Now: get to work. Bye, loves!”

 

It’s late. Most everyone has gone off to bed. People take risks when it’s late.

Aramis comes out of the bathroom to find Porthos waiting in the hallway. “Just need to brush my teeth,” he mutters.

But Aramis doesn’t budge from the doorway. “What does Flea want you to tell me?”

Porthos had expected that if he were ever to tell Aramis how he felt it would have been an act of hope. But it’s not, he realizes. It’s the opposite: it’s giving up. It’s an act of surrender. “Flea’s a romantic at heart, is all. Not a realist bone in her body.” The thing is, it doesn’t matter. The stakes couldn’t be lower because they have no chance at any sort of future. He can tell him now, finally, because there is no hope. “It’s just, you’re not the only one who had a crush in college.”

Aramis swallows.

“It was the worst kept secret at Castelmore, no idea how I managed to keep it from you. But it’s in the distant past, right? You’re celibate and I don’t have to pine for straight boys anymore.”

“I wasn’t straight.”

Porthos can feel his face flush – with frustration now, nothing sweet or tender. His eyebrows furrow, incredulous. “You did a damn good impression.”

Aramis’ eyelids fall closed. He looks guilty. He looks _awful_. At least when he opens his eyes again, he doesn’t try to defend himself.

“Good night, Aramis,” Porthos says, and angles past him.

But Aramis grabs Porthos’ arm around his bicep. Porthos stops – what’s he going to do, tear his arm out of Aramis’ grip? – and turns to face Aramis. Aramis, who appears entirely struck, tangled in knots, Porthos always thought he could read him but what did he know, he couldn’t even tell Aramis liked guys. So Porthos doesn’t trust what he sees, and maybe it’s cruel to make someone so evidently wrecked speak, but he does: “what?”

Aramis licks his lips. His gaze falters, falls to Porthos’ lips – Porthos can feel it like sunlight on the thin, sensitive skin there.

_Stop torturing yourself. This doesn't change anything._

Porthos claps Aramis on the shoulder with his free hand. “Get some sleep, padre.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three, part one: a big game, a big ask, a blast from the past.  
> Be careful what you wish for, for you will surely get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't have written the sportsy sections below without the help of the legendary and multi-talented Amistosa. All hail her brilliant mind and her generous heart.

**Saturday**

 

Half asleep, Constance’s body seeks d’Artagnan’s. She curls her bare leg over the back of his knee, presses her breasts against his side. His breath is heavier for a moment as he begins to wake up, then shallows and she knows he’s paying attention. She strokes a line down the center of his back with her fingertip, scraping her nail gently against the soft skin over his spine, the deliciously soft peach fuzz, and then opens out her palm to skim it over the curve of his ass.

He murmurs into the pillow.

“Hi,” she whispers. Her index finger follows the hem of his shorts over his thigh and down between his legs.

“Time is it?” he asks her in a mumble, turning onto his side to face her.

“Open your eyes, love,” she says.

He does. The room is dark, except for the pale glow of starlight through the window above their bed.

D’Artagnan finds the swell of her thigh, sleepily strokes a wide path up the side of her with limp fingers, all the way up behind her shoulder to the nape of her neck. He draws her closer still, kisses her gently, a sweet night peck.

She opens her mouth under his lips, licking against his teeth, against the tip of his tongue.

He hums, and when she pulls tighter on his leg with hers, it becomes a groan.

She drags the waistband of his shorts lower, over his ass, scraping lightly as she pulls. “Off,” she whispers against his lips.

“You, too,” he returns, and they roll apart so he can tug his shorts off. She slides lace down her legs and off, then slips her camisole over her head with a secret grin.

There is always that first rush of surprising skin, that strange, prickling discovery of his body against hers. As long as she lives, she will never take it for granted. The way he arches his hips against her, the faint brush of his hair on her face, his chest hair against the sensitive skin of her breasts. His thigh over hers, between hers. His cock hard against her belly.

She rolls him onto her. Savors his weight as she opens her legs under him. When he bends to kiss her neck he thrusts against her, not inside her, not yet. She loves the drag of his cock against her, he knows just the angle, yes _there_ , and this early morning she needs no more than this, a few of these, to be slick.

“Constance,” he breathes against her neck. Another thrust, small and purposeful, head against head.

Two more of those, _so good_ , and she reaches down between them, takes his cock in her hand, angles it lower. She needs him inside her, and when he pushes just inside, barely, her mouth falls open. He knows, _God does he_ , how he can take her apart, _just here,_ pressing her open.

She exhales a ragged breath.                                                         

He moves inside her slowly, while above her his body undulates with each careful thrust. His lips find her neck, find that pulse point, nip and suck. Her hips help him thrust, curling to make each move deeper.

“It’s hard to imagine,” she sighs, holding his face so she can kiss him.

He hums his question, turns his head to kiss her palm.

“… anyone else.”

He holds himself higher above her. “Me too.”

“What about Athos?” she asks in a warm whisper, stretching her neck to breathe the words against his lips.

He takes a measured breath, but she can feel his cock swell inside her. She smiles – maybe it’s too dark to see it – and curls her hips against him once.

“I know. But I won’t ask him,” she tells him with another kiss.

“Constance,” he argues with a groan. _Athos._ He can’t think.

“I want _you_ to.”

His breath hitches against her mouth. _Athos, here between Constance’s thighs_. _Athos’ cock._ It is everything he can do not to dive into her.

“If it’s Athos, will you be there?”

“Constance.” He says it like it hurts. Like everything hurts.

“Not just to watch,” she whispers hot against his skin. “To fuck us both.”

 _Yes, God,_ and at the thought of it he can’t hold back a second longer. He drives so deep into her he can feel the tip of his cock kiss her cervix and it is still not enough. He thrusts again – _Athos_ \-- and she arches under him, with him, clutching him and his longing against her as she holds his hips between her crossed legs. One more thrust and he comes hard, that overwhelming rush and when he’s very lucky… _there,_ his orgasm tips her over the edge.

She holds him tight, loves his patience, how he doesn’t rush these few moments afterwards when their bodies pulse with satisfaction, out of phase but perfectly in tune. And when it begins to dissipate she kisses him, sweet lips against his loose mouth. “So you’ll ask him,” she says, only half a question. “I love you for this, you know. So much.”

 

Daylight puts things in perspective.

Fundamentally, he will not be asking Athos for any sort of in-person sperm donation. It’s ridiculous. It’s not how things work in the real world. Avoiding things like this is why sperm banks were invented.

And even if he did ask him… Athos is not going to fuck them both. Athos, were he to say yes at all (which he won’t because he won’t be asked), would not _want_ to fuck them both. D’Artagnan can just see Athos’ face, the withering glare, as if he had always known d’Artagnan would someday ask this of him and had only hoped he’d think better of it when the opportunity finally presented itself. But no, hopeless d’Artagnan couldn’t keep his figurative dick in his pants. Athos’ face -- disappointment and resignation etched around his eyes – he can see it.

That’s how it would go. He can’t imagine Athos agreeing to the arrangement – but at the merest suggestion now he is, impossibly, seeing it clear as day: Athos licking his lips while he watches d’Artagnan explain what they are really asking of him. _Just once. It won’t change a thing._

Athos would nod, look him in the eye (d’Artagnan might as well see the fantasy through), _only Constance? Not you?_ And step closer, the eye contact heady and disorienting, _not you too?_ D’Artagnan laid bare with the request, unable to look away: _I’ll be there if you want me there._ Athos, looking right through him, that face so nearly a smile, _oh, I want you. Question is, which of you I’ll have first._

No.

No.

And anyway, the man isn’t twenty-one anymore. Nobody’s coming more than once.

Porthos saves d’Artagnan from the spiral. He’s already in the kitchen when d’Artagnan pads in, already making coffee barefoot in a white t-shirt, stretched at the neck, and jeans gone velvet soft with wear. It’s quiet in the house; everyone else must be asleep. The chirps and titters from the forest outside surround them; the light is fresh and white. It makes everything feel new.

D’Artagnan drops a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, and gets a sleepy smile back.

“Wanna come running?” d’Artagnan asks him.

Porthos leaves one hand on the coffee maker. “I only brought these,” he says, looking down at his jeans. “Not ideal.”

“You could borrow a pair of mine.”

Porthos agrees. They run slow and steady at first, at Porthos’ pace. D’Artagnan’s spare pair of basketball shorts are blessedly long and loose; they do the trick even if they’re tighter across his ass than Porthos generally likes.

 

Anne and Athos meet in the kitchen.

“Coffee’s good,” Athos mutters at the rim of his mug, already seated.

Anne, pouring herself a cup, cants her head. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” he says with a nod, and sips.

“You didn’t make it?” she asks, now swinging the refrigerator door open.

He purses his lips by way of answer. “So who did?” he asks.

“Coffee fairy,” she answers, her voice – and her mood -- light as wings. “Has to be.” She pours a splash of cream – real cream, so indulgent of Porthos, she could kiss him – into her mug and takes a tentative sip.

Athos’ eyes smile as he pulls out a seat out for her.

She sits. Takes a deep breath. These beautiful mornings, so much sweeter than she even imagined when they first saw the house on an overcast Saturday afternoon. These mornings always felt like love and promise, like a garden after rain.

These mornings will never be the same.

“So,” she says, a little louder against the weight of her thoughts. “Tell me about Chicago.”

 

When Aramis comes down just after nine, Anne is alone at the kitchen table. Her hair is pulled back in a haphazard ponytail and she’s got one leg folded up sideways under her. She’s reading an old paperback, the pages a little yellow with age, and she doesn’t look a day over twenty.

Her pale fingers trace the rim of her empty coffee mug. She is miraculous.

Before anything else, he kisses her temple.

She looks up and he can see she wasn’t reading after all. Lost in thought. A wavering moment and then her face begins to crumple, her eyelids close, fluttering back tears. An attempt at a smile, abandoned. 

Aramis squeezes her shoulder. “More coffee?” he offers her, jutting his chin at her cup.

She nods.

 

And then it seems that everyone is there in the kitchen, all at once, although of course that’s not how it happens. Constance slips in behind Aramis and Anne, both of them reading (Aramis thumbing through something on his phone with one hand, the other on the back of Anne’s chair), and pours herself a cup of coffee. John comes down freshly showered and starts another pot just as d’Artagnan and Porthos get back from their run and there’s Porthos, bending double in the doorway, his back swelling and shrinking, swelling and shrinking.

“You… are a motherfucker,” he gasps.

D’Artagnan beams. “You did great! Don’t wreck it.”

Porthos sucks in greedy breaths. “What kind of an asshole… sprints the last… half mile?”

“What kind of fool competes with them?” Constance snickers.

Aramis grins at all three of them.

(“You hungry?” Aramis asks John, an aside. John shrugs. “I could eat. You cooking?” “I was thinking pancakes.” “Is there bacon?” Aramis gives John an incredulous pout. “ _Is there bacon._ Please.”)

Athos comes in, stuffing his phone in his jeans pocket. “I missed the jogging, excellent.”

“Sprinting,” Porthos huffs.

“You wanna come?” d’Artagnan asks Athos, criminally energetic for the circumstances. “I’ve got another few miles in me.”

(Porthos shoots d’Artagnan a look, which d’Artagnan misses. But Aramis catches it; he barks a laugh which earns him a half-grinning guffaw from Porthos.)

“Save it,” Athos tells d’Artagnan, crossing his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Save it for later.”

Constance looks, startled, across the room at her husband, who gives it back to her double.

“Illinois is playing Indiana, 1 o’clock,” Athos continues. “Need you at your best for two on two at the half.”

“How about two on three?” Louis Jr. asks on his way in.

“That’s okay,” Aramis is quick to say. “You play, I’ll watch.”

“Nonsense, coach can even us up,” d’Artagnan corrects them, and a wide smile redraws his face. “Three on three. Unless you ladies want to join in? Four on four?”

Constance snorts. “And miss the chance to ogle your shirtless, sweaty bodies?”

“Ew,” Louis Jr. comments from the doorway.

“Not yours,” Anne assures him. “John, please don’t feel you have to play.”

(Aramis stands up and holds his chair out for Porthos, who sits. A few moments later, Aramis places a glass of cool water in front of him. “Thanks,” Porthos says, and gulps it down in three swallows. When he sets the glass down empty, there’s a steaming mug of coffee waiting. Porthos bites away a smile.)

“Wouldn’t miss it,” John answers her with a nod that might as well be a bow. “It’ll be like old times.”

“Old being the operative word,” Athos slips in on his way out of the room.

Aramis, having located a bowl and a whisk, estimates a two-cup pile of flour, an easy laugh bubbling out of him. He can’t help it; it feels too good just being here, surrounding by his favorite people in the world. Everything is better, funnier, more real here.

“Laugh all you want,” John grumbles, turning to face Aramis. “Ten bucks says you don’t score.”

Aramis swings the refrigerator door open. “Who says I’ll play on _your_ team?”

D’Artagnan hoots his appreciation; Anne’s mouths _ouch_. But Aramis only has eyes for Porthos’ reaction, twisting to look over his shoulder as Porthos huffs a laugh and nods. 

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” John simmers.

Aramis shakes his head, too full of mirth to needle him, even playfully. He cracks an egg on the counter. “You taught me everything I know about teamwork, coach.”

“Now I know you’re full of shit,” John protests.

“You did,” d’Artagnan agrees.

(“Didn’t he,” d’Artagnan prompts Porthos. Porthos drains his coffee. “Gonna go take a shower,” Porthos mutters, and sets his mug in the sink on his way out of the kitchen. D’Artagnan scowls, first after Porthos, then passingly at his wife. She dismisses his concerns with a wave and a wink.)

“I’m starving,” Louis Jr. says, taking Porthos’ empty chair at the table.

“Pancakes in T minus ten,” Aramis answers. He slices open two packages of bacon. “Fifteen for the bacon, if I can find a big enough pan.”

 

“It’s starting!” d’Artagnan calls a few minutes after one. “Get your asses up here!”

Soon they’re all up in front of the third floor TV, all but Anne who cuts up the rest of the celery and carrots, and pours salsa into a bowl. She carries it all up to the attic, with the half-consumed bag of chips, on a tray.

The couch is a couch – she wonders if Aramis has opened it up to a bed at all since he’s been here, hopes he took her invitation to make himself at home to heart, but maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable and she can’t argue with that.

She sets the snacks down on the small table in front of the TV and they all lean to see around her. John keeps a running undertone of “no, no, no,” and “yeah, slow, don’t be greedy,” a coach’s mutter that builds, gains focus and volume until the decisive moment it’s finally joined by the rest of them in a disappointed howl.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says with a secret smile. She wants to keep them forever.

“Thanks, mom,” Louis Jr. says. Anne brushes her fingers through his hair and kisses the crown of his head. Of course Aramis notices. She winks at him on her way downstairs.

Indiana is characteristically relentless. Illinois, on the other hand, plays like they just rolled out of bed. They let one opportunity go by after another. They blunder to the net, setting up play after play only to blow it with a hasty pass or missed rebound. Porthos punches a couch cushion when Indiana makes their first three-pointer and Illinois is still in single digits.

“Anyone up for reruns? Maybe a made for TV movie?” Athos deadpans. “Anything is better than this.”

“They’ll pull it out,” John insists. He drags a chip through the bowl of salsa and pops it in his mouth. “They need to remember the chemistry. You can’t take it for granted. Can’t leave Garcia out there without Drake.”

“Drake is a mess,” Aramis protests. “He’s missing everything, and last weekend --”

“Alone, yeah. Because he needs Garcia. Templeton, too.”

Porthos snorts. “Templeton?”

“On their own they’re all good players – maybe not today, but they deserve to be there. But the magic… you remember the game against Notre Dame? That was where I knew, but looking back, from the start of the season it’s been there. The three of them operate like parts of one body.”

D’Artagnan leans back into the couch cushions, soaking it in.

“Just like you did,” John adds.

 

It’s quiet for what feels like hours. Anne is in the living room when the guys stampede down the stairs.

Porthos slaps d’Artagnan’s ass on the way to the front door. “You’re on my team, speedy,” he says, eyebrow cocked, and flings the door wide.

“Mom, is the blower up thingie on the workbench?”

Anne follows Louis Jr. into the garage. “I’ll look, you go get your shoes,” she says.

Constance grabs two picnic chairs and sets them up just inside the garage.

The ball is old and faded, a pale gray orange now, but the Castelmore logo can still be made out if you know what you’re looking for. John flips it in his hands a few times before he notices it, and when he does he passes it to Athos. “Look at that,” he says.

“Of course he kept a ball,” Athos says. “Didn’t you?”

Porthos and Aramis shake their heads; d’Artagnan shrugs a yes.

Athos tosses the ball to Porthos, who has managed to find both the pump and the needle. “Okay then, teams.”

D’Artagnan, standing beside Louis Jr., leans closer. “See what I mean? Captain.”

Louis Jr. is beaming. As far as he’s concerned, these few minutes of three on three is better than playing with the ‘96 Bulls. These people he’s about to play with are family legends – who are starting to feel like uncles.

“I want Aramis and d’Artagnan,” Porthos calls, still pumping up the ball.

“Excellent, I get intelligence and energy,” Athos returns. “It’ll be a rout.”

“Shirts versus skins!” Constance yells from her seat. “Take it off!”

Anne howls with laughter.

With a waggle of his eyebrow, d’Artagnan pulls his t-shirt off over the back of his head. He’s the only one who brought shorts, so the rest of them are in jeans and t-shirts.

“I’m not taking off my shirt,” Porthos insists to Constance. “This,” he says, indicating his chest and torso, “doesn’t come free.”

“Mine does,” Athos drones, deadpan, and pulls his shirt off, throwing it at John. “Come on, coach.”

John exhales, pretending to think about it before reaching behind his head to pull his t-shirt off.

Constance actually whistles. Anne’s cheeks go pink and hot.

“Whatever,” Louis Jr. says, and takes off his shirt. “But you guys are crazy, it’s cold as fuck out here.”

“Language,” Anne reminds him and he rolls his eyes.

“If they’re skins, does that mean I have to put my shirt back on?” d’Artagnan asks, a pout on his lips.

“No,” more than one person yells back.

Porthos tosses the ball, now fully inflated, to Athos who squeezes it twice, bounces it once, then tucks it under his arm. “Five second shot clock and,” he points to the row of pavers leading to the front door, “check from the pavers, bottom of the driveway, or the grass. How do we feel about dunking?” he asks John.

Porthos is incredulous. “The net is like four feet high. I could _fall_ into it. _Please_.”

“It’s eight feet,” Louis Jr. argues.

“Let the poor man dunk,” Aramis pleads.

Constance starts a slow clap from the shade of the garage. “Quit chatting, ladies! Let’s see some basketball!”

Anne laughs beside her.

“You heard her,” d’Artagnan says, tracking Athos as he makes his way to the pavers.

Aramis lines up against John and Porthos looks down with an almost predatory grin at Louis Jr. “Let’s go.”

Once the ball is in, John passes to Louis Jr. a few times. He’s testing him, the rest of them can see it. He’s looking for Aramis’ precision and almost improvisational style, and sure enough he finds the kernel of it. They manage to keep the ball long enough to make a first attempt at a basket, but Porthos bats it away.

It all rushes back, between teasing and high fives. This is what their team was built on: communicating with their eyes, knowing each other so well that a split second leaning left is enough to know everything that will come after.

Athos’ fire is as hot as ever, and as far as d’Artagnan is concerned, it’s glorious. He’s rooting for Athos as much as for himself. Athos dribbles just inside the driveway, only the slightest hint in his knees that he might bolt. He waits for Porthos and Aramis to swap guards. D’Artagnan could swear Athos is stifling a grin in the moment before he suddenly (too suddenly for d’Artagnan, despite all the vigilance he can muster) fakes right to lose d’Artagnan and then, just like he used to, goes hard for the hoop, crashing against Porthos’ chest and missing his shot. But he doesn’t need to make it, he just needs to get the ball near John, who tips it in on the rebound.

Porthos and Aramis include d’Artagnan at first, but soon slip into the partnership John saw and fostered from their earliest practices. It’s eye contact and an almost psychic connection. One look from Aramis and Porthos gets in to block John. It’s their old pick and roll, Aramis is free and Porthos can slip away to the net, positioned perfectly for the first lay-up of the afternoon. After the first one, it’s really a matter of controlling themselves, keeping the play friendly.

“What was that about not scoring?” Aramis taunts as they reset.

Athos tosses the ball to Louis Jr. “Honestly, have you _ever_ been known not to score?”

“Make fun, but I’ve been faithful. Not a single, uh, point.”

“That’s not an accomplishment, it’s a tragedy,” Porthos cracks, crouching to guard the kid.

From the sideline, Constance cheers both teams. Whoever is behind gets a special boost, and when her husband doesn’t like it she sticks her tongue out at him and shouts louder. D’Artagnan has to share her with the rest of the boys. It’s good practice.

If Anne isn’t consistently delighted, she doesn’t let it show. This is a gift, these moments around the hoop. And it isn’t even that she aches at Louie’s absence, that she feels the loss so keenly while she watches these men teach the son that was never really his. No, those feelings are there, but coloring everything is the truth that nothing, not even this, will last. Time is a thief, she knows that now. She watched her sons grow, watched as lines etched themselves beside her eyes, could feel time ruthlessly accelerating. But it steals outright too, she knows that now, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.

In the end, Porthos announces their team won by twelve. Athos knows it was at least twenty; he slaps Porthos five and, with only his eyes, thanks him for his sportsmanship. D’Artagnan congratulates Louis Jr., and Aramis agrees. “Could see you thinking through it. Smart playing.”

John claps Louis Jr. on the shoulder. “We gotta get you on a real team.”

“You think so?”

Porthos swipes the sweat from his forehead with his arm. “We would’ve dominated if it weren’t for you.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s strictly true. This is what uncles are for.

“Who wants a drink?” Louis Jr. asks the crowd, and heads back into the house.

“Good game, coach,” Athos says, shaking John’s hand.

“You’re all in shit shape.” But every worry has been wiped from John’s face. He looks two decades younger.

“Tell me about it,” d’Artagnan agrees.

“Not you,” Athos counters. “God, look at you.”

The compliment sends a blush up d’Artagnan’s neck, up to his cheeks. “Need to find my shirt…” he mumbles, grabbing it before following Louis Jr. into the house.

After a raised eyebrow to Athos, Aramis claps an arm across Porthos’ shoulders. “I’ve missed you.”

Porthos doesn’t say it back, though the words bunch up in his throat. Instead, it’s “It all comes back, doesn’t it?” – and Aramis can take that however he wants.

 

Constance and Anne fold the chairs; Constance goes back inside, but Anne turns to look out at the forest and farther, to the lake. Maybe a walk. She needs to clear her head after _that_.

After John. After watching John, _shirtless_. After seeing him run, twist, bend, throw. And guide. Teach them again. Teach her son.

She doesn’t take the path down to the lake, but instead winds her way between bare trees and evergreens, dead leaves and twigs crunching under foot, into the forest that surrounds the house.

Soon she hears another set of footsteps behind her. She shouldn’t hope, has no reason to believe….

She keeps walking. She knows where the forest grows thicker, where there’s a hill and a stand of boulders high enough that she won’t be seen from the house.

They. Where _they_ won’t be seen. _Follow me._

A rocky hill rises to her right. She behind it to the hollow facing the lake, and waits.

A breath, two, six, and John is there, holding his shirt. “Are you all right? I saw you…”

Anne bites her bottom lip. She cannot raise her eyes to John’s face, can’t look away from his broad, freckled shoulders, the spray of pale hair across his chest, the swell of muscles in his arms. She’s holding her fingers so tight, in claws at her sides – they twitch, they ache to stroke across that expanse of skin.

“I --”

Her thoughts are a whirlwind of _go inside_ and _this can’t happen_ and _look at his face_ and _whatever you do, don’t look at his face_.

He has freckles. For God’s sake.

She shakes her head helplessly.

John takes her hand, smoothing his thumb over her tense fingers until they soften and curve over his. Soften and curve and move, God help her, slowly, up his forearm. Higher, up the outside of his upper arm where the hair goes sparser.

Her eyelids fall closed. His skin is feverish under her fingers, a little sticky with sweat.

“Anne,” John breathes, and in that sound she thinks maybe she can hear what Constance was talking about it.

It’s enough. Anne steps closer, lets her fingers move further, up over his shoulder to his neck – his pulse races against the pad of her finger, he is _right there_ , all she has to do is lift her chin another inch –

His lips against hers, warm and utterly new. His tongue, the gentlest touch against her lip and she opens her mouth, takes his lower lip, steps into him and his arms are around her. They kiss each other slowly, a little at a time until they find how they fit.

They fit. God, do they fit.

Her palm skates up his neck to his cheek and at that, he sucks at her lip, holds her tighter. She can feel his heartbeat against her chest.

And she can feel him being careful. With every opening there is restraint; every move closer, he holds himself back.

It’s magnetic. Hypnotizing. She wants _in_.

Her fingers thread into the short, wet hairs at the nape of his neck. She scratches, sucks at his bottom lip, and his breath gathers to a moan. He clutches her tighter still, opens her lips with his.

And then abruptly pulls away. “I’m sorry.”

Anne freezes, small and cold.

“You just lost your husband. My boss.” His voice his breathy but knife sharp. “I took advantage --”

 _That’s not what this is_. “Don’t, John.”

“Please forgive me.”

She reaches for him, fingertips again, along his jaw. This can’t be it. “If I do, will you kiss me again?” She tries to flirt, tries for something sweet, but her desperation floats to the surface.

His mouth is open, his jaw jutting even as she traces it, held in that half-grimace she has come to know so well. He shakes his head.

“John.” She waits.

Eventually he steps back out of her reach, calms his breath. Still doesn’t look her in the eye. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says, and goes back to the house.

 

He’ll pack his things and be gone before she has to see him again.

Damn. Damn.

One week and everything’s changed. John had a job, a boss. Anne was on the periphery, a lovely apparition, a faint, unspecific longing. He had a purpose. He knew where he belonged, whether or not it was the life he’d chosen. There was a structure. Everything in its place.

Now? Remove one element and the whole thing falls apart. He can’t stay here, can’t go home again, can’t work in that office, can’t pretend he didn’t follow Anne into the forest and leave his good judgment behind.

She kissed him back. The memory of her, so recent, only moments old – she could still be in his arms –

Unspecific? Who is he kidding? He wanted _her_. For years, and it only got worse. Stronger. Now he knows what he’s missing. He can feel her body against his, can feel her lips – it was everything he never let himself imagine, and more.

Which is why he has to go. He’ll call Athos later, invent some excuse.

 

D’Artagnan will wonder, in the months to come, how their lives would be different if he hadn’t gone down to the kitchen in the middle of the third quarter for a round of beers. He wonders if she would have slipped in and out, unrecognized, the wrapped up tiny quiches and salmon mousse the only hint of her.

But he does go down when Athos asks if there’s still beer in the fridge. He offers to get some for the rest of them, and he should really check on Constance and where coach has gotten to.

He finds Anne in the kitchen – the _other_ Anne, d’Artagnan’s first Anne, who goes by Milady now from what he’s heard, ludicrous name really. She’s silently slipping two trays of reception food into the refrigerator.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in a tense whisper.

“Marie asked if I wouldn’t mind dropping off these leftovers with Anne.” Her lips curve into the image of a smile, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. It never did.

“You have to leave. Now.”

“I think the phrase you’re looking for, d’Artagnan, is ‘thank you.’ Or perhaps ‘how lovely to see you after so long.’”

Anne can’t be faced with her, not now. Not ever. And Athos: seeing her will set him back _years_. The woman is a bomb. “Get out before I throw you out.”

There’s no warning: Anne ( _their_ Anne) is in the doorway. “You.”

Milady turns to face Anne. Her eyebrows go wide, her face deliberately serene. “All these cars outside, must be a party.”

“Leave,” d’Artagnan insists. “Just go.”

“Or a reunion?” Her gaze drifts upward. “Who else is here?”

That infuriating non-smile again. D’Artagnan has never hit a woman before but his hand keeps twitching toward a fist. “Marie sent her with leftovers from a reception,” he explains to Anne.

“I offered. It was on my way,” Milady explains, the picture of magnanimity.

“How did you know it was on your way?” Anne takes a breath, steps closer, and her face fills with fire. “ _You came here with him.”_

Milady doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t look away, either.

The venom in Anne’s voice brings the rest of the company from every corner of the house. Within moments Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and Louis Jr. crowd one doorway while Constance and John rush to the other.

“Anne,” Athos exhales. He looks at d’Artagnan, stricken, then back at her.

D’Artagnan’s stomach drops. _Fuck_.

John swallows when Milady looks him in the eye.

Aramis pushes through the crowd. “Get her out of here,” he directs Athos in a crisp baritone, then wraps his arm around Anne’s shoulders. “Come with me,” he says.

Athos grabs Milady’s arm and practically drags her out the front door.

But the widow plants herself in the kitchen. “Why was she at a reception? How did she hear?”

“I’m sure she read it somewhere,” Aramis assures her, his voice soft, gentling. “Local news.”

John sets his jaw. What does he have to lose now? He’s already ruined everything. “I called her,” he announces.

“Not surprised,” Porthos mutters. “Never been able to mind your own damn business.”

Anne is still. She feels her focus harden, narrow to John’s face. “You called her.” Why? What could he have meant by it? He was her friend, her… She can’t make sense of it.

“Mom? Who is she?” Louis Jr. asks now.

Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go watch the rest of the game, give your mom a minute.”

“Who is that woman?” he repeats, glaring at the back of his mother’s head. “Mom.”

“Not now,” Aramis tells Louis Jr. with a firm look.

“Stay out of this,” Louis Jr. bristles, and then, to his mother again, “What do you mean, ‘you came with him?’ Dad? Brought that woman here? Was he having an affair?”

“Louis,” Aramis warns, louder.

Louis Jr. takes a deep breath, puffing his chest out as he steps closer to Aramis. But Porthos squeezes Louis Jr.’s shoulder. “Your mom’s upset. You’ll get your answers but for now, let’s give her a minute. Come on upstairs.”

Porthos doesn’t give him an option really. He steers the kid by the shoulders, shooting Aramis an _I’ve got this_ look over his shoulder on the way out.

 

Outside, Athos holds Milady’s arm in a bruisingly tight grip.

“Why are you like this?” he snarls, ragged, glaring at her, inches from her face.

“Come back with me,” she dares him, ignoring his question. She swivels in his grip to offer Athos her lips.

He almost yields. He could kiss her, easy as breathing. It would be so simple; he can feel the reality of it just beyond his sight. He could do it, and everything, every _one_ he’s fought so hard for would vanish from his life.

He would be left with _this_.

“Leave Anne alone.” There is a deep tremble in his gut, in his bones. She has always dwelt in the darkest parts of him. “Leave them all alone.”

It’s a stalemate, at best. She tears her arm out of Athos’ grasp. He doesn’t move, hunched slightly and heaving, but watches her as she slips into her car and drives away.

 

Constance angles past John to take Anne’s hand. It does nothing to quiet the anger throbbing out of her in waves.

“Why, John?” Anne presses. “Explain it to me.”

John shakes his head. “She deserved to know.”

“That’s bullshit. She doesn’t deserve anything.” Anne rubs her forehead with her free hand. “Just what I need right now, the boys asking questions. ‘Was he having an affair?’ Thank you.”

“I know, you’re right, which is why I didn’t invite her to the funeral.”

“There were press everywhere, I can just imagine: Mayor’s Paramour Crashes Funeral.” She turns all her anger at John’s shell-shocked face. “Widow Knees City Manager in the Nuts.”

“I just thought.” He doesn’t, can’t, remember why he called her. He drank too much that night and lost the thread. It’s no excuse.

But what was the reason he was going to call her in the first place? Before he thought better of it, before he poured himself yet another glass? It was Louie’s joy. Louie was happier with Milady than he’d seen him since Castelmore. And maybe it was all an act on her end, but if it was mutual….

“If it were me, I’d want to know.” He swallows.

“So she gets empathy and me, your friend, your… the _widow_ , I get… what? Fuck you. Fuck her, fuck you, fuck your freckles and fuck your fucking face, John.”

D’Artagnan tries not to listen to them. He watches from inside until Milady is gone, and then a minute longer. He watches Athos stare after her, heaving deep, exhausted breaths.

D’Artagnan had just started at Castelmore when he met her. Orientation week; he wasn’t even officially a freshman yet. She was gorgeous – despite the danger she poses she still is, in a harsh, severe way, breathtakingly beautiful. She targeted him, he eventually realized. She was suspiciously available. It was a whirlwind three days before his roommate moved in, before he had even unpacked all of his things.

And then he tried out for the team and she vanished into thin air. For a while.

It was later that year, when she came to a practice -- lingered in the doorway exactly the way she had when d’Artagnan first saw her -- that he learned who she was to Athos. What she had done to him. What they had done to each other, no one quite knew all the details but the result was plain. Athos was gutted. Empty where his heart should be.

D’Artagnan never forgave himself for sleeping with the girl Athos loved and lost. Athos did, but d’Artagnan couldn’t quite believe it. Even now, the guilt is a fog around him.

He finally walks out to where Athos is still standing. Barely standing: a light breeze would blow him over. “Hey,” d’Artagnan says.

“I’m sure I’m better, and then. It’s been decades.” He blows out a sigh. “Sometimes I think I’ll never entirely get rid of her.”

D’Artagnan watches Athos’ profile against the overcast sky. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Athos says in that hollow voice d’Artagnan hates.

D’Artagnan can’t begin to answer.

Athos looks down at the gravel for a second before turning to look d’Artagnan in the eye. “This is the last time I’m going to say this, so please listen. I don’t blame you for sleeping with Anne.” He pauses, rolls his eyes lightly. “Milady. Stupid name.”

“I can’t stand that this comes between us.”

“It doesn’t. I’m fine. See?” He opens his arms, summons his least concerned expression. “All better.”

“And I hate that I need you to forgive me. More than anything.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what? Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Stop _that_. Stop acting like I’m so important.”

D’Artagnan chuckles at himself, a dark sound even as he feels his face turn brighter. “You were the _most_ important.” _Are_ , but that feels too immediate to give voice to.

Athos licks his lips. Tries to meet d’Artagnan’s eye, but can’t. “That’s…”

D’Artagnan stands like he used to, hands on his hips, slumped in his shoulders. He is the same as ever; Athos can’t be blamed for feeling the years peel away. D’Artagnan huffs and peers up into the pale sky.

“What?”

“I was going to talk to you about something that was already completely crazy before all this, but now it’s just so much more obviously ludicrous on top of _her_ being here, and I just… Life, you know? Life.”

“I’m okay, d’Artagnan. Really.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Ask me the thing.” Eye contact, perilous and unflinching.

D’Artagnan is caught, but only for a second. “No, never mind. Crazy, like I said.”

“Ask me.”

“I am one hundred percent not going to.” But the thought strikes him: he squints, seems to retreat into himself. “Oh my God, did Porthos say something to you?”

Athos lifts an eyebrow.

“Aramis?”

“D’Artagnan, _ask me_.” D’Artagnan shakes his head and looks down the road after Milady, re-bracing his hands on his hips. Athos pushes – he has to. This feels big. “Back in college, you would have done anything for me. Anything.” Athos waits until d’Artagnan meets his gaze. “Am I right?”

D’Artagnan nods.

“And you still would.”

“In a heartbeat.”

Athos shrugs. “Me, too.”

“Not this.”

“Try me.”

D’Artagnan screws his lips into a tight grimace. “If I do, you have to promise you won’t punch me and never talk to me again.”

“God, what are you going to ask? I draw the line at assassination. Probably.”

D’Artagnan takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. “I can’t. I have to drop it. Constance was wrong, even just asking would change everything.”

“Is this about Constance? Is she all right?”

D’Artagnan nods, lips bitten closed. Athos gives d’Artagnan a sustained glare.

It’s Athos. He can’t resist him. “She wants to have a baby.”

Athos squints.

“And I am… medically… out of the running.”

“I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t answer. Or look at Athos.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Athos to put it together. “Wait. Seriously?”

“ _I am not asking you._ For the record. I can explain, but I’m _not asking_. Got it?”

Athos nods.

After another hesitant moment, the words rush out. “She had an appointment yesterday to get the donor sperm but we missed it cause we were here and it’s not like we didn’t talk about asking one of you when it all first came up and she would have been happy with any of you three because she loves you all but as far as I was concerned it was only ever _you_ , you know, because honestly? You’re _you_ and if anyone’s going to be part of this with us? _You_. I mean, we both adore you and how much better would that be, right? To have _your_ child make our family? To have you with us that way?”

“D’Artagnan.”

“Which, ludicrous, I know, so I’m _not asking_.” D’Artagnan’s cheeks are flushed now and there’s a frantic smile behind his mask of terror. “Because that’s not how these things work and it’s not fair to you, obviously, plus what kind of a crazy person invites his old friend into his bed with his wife and him?”

At that, Athos’ eyebrows raise all the way.

“ _Not asking_ ,” d’Artagnan insists, almost hysterical. “Because if we _were_ going to do this, why not go full throttle complicated? It couldn’t just be a quick sperm deposit in a plastic cup like civilized people, no. Let’s dredge up _everything._ Constance thinks she’s figured me out and, I don’t know, this is her idea of a gift. Fucking nuts. All three of us, make a night of it, right?”

“Right,” Athos ghosts.

D’Artagnan is more winded now than he ever is after running.

Athos stands still, watching d’Artagnan not quite look at him. He could laugh at this. He could. He could wave it away and lose it forever. Or he could finally seize it. He swallows, wills his voice above a whisper. Conviction. “Okay.”

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. Not there yet. “It’s ridiculous, _obviously_.”

“I’ll do it.”

D’Artagnan’s breath catches. He stretches to his full height, slowly. Looks at Athos, peers at him, searches for a hint of playfulness, the edge of a tease. Nothing. “I didn’t ask. You heard me not ask.” But he stops short of saying _I don’t want this._ Because it would be a lie.

Athos tilts his head, a dark _we both know better_ look in his eyes.

D’Artagnan’s voice is low, more intimate than he means it to be. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“You want to fuck my wife?” The words come breathless.

“I thought you said it would be both of you.”

“You want to… That’s.” D’Artagnan feels every millimeter of his open lips, of his eyelids batting closed and open. Every inch of what Athos sees.

Now Athos smiles. “I have to show you something.” Athos fishes his phone out of his jeans. “You haven’t met Sylvie yet, but you will. Now, you definitely will.”

D’Artagnan watches Athos, dumbstruck.

“My girlfriend. Or, something. There’s not a great word for these things among adults. She’s pregnant.”

“Oh god, _seriously,_ I take everything back --”

Athos interrupts. “She was already pregnant when we met. She’s just starting her second trimester. Here,” he says, thrusting his phone into d’Artagnan’s hand. Texts. _Sylvie_ is the heading.

_A: Fffffuuck._

_S: Excellent. Be specific_

_A: Looks the same. Cruelly collapsing the past and present. Am likely to drag him into a broom closet._

_S: Plz send pics_

_A: I wish you could have come along_

_S: Love you. Have to go puke now._

“Who…?” D’Artagnan’s head vibrates like the inside of a speaker.

_A: Can you spare me for the weekend? Seems we’ve all been invited to the family vacation house on a lake for extended mourning/nostalgia. Home Sunday, but only if you really don’t mind._

_S: All I’m doing is puking and napping. Have fun! How was the broom closet?_

_A: N/A_

_S: SO FAR. I believe in you._

_A: He’s happily heterosexually coupled. As far as realities go, this one is pretty concrete._

_S: How’s C?_

_A: Lovely. Exactly who Anne needs now. Perfect still._

_S: Iiiiiiinteresting_

_A: I miss you_

_S: you are my heart_

'You are my heart.' Why is he reading this?

_A: this was a terrible idea_

_S: ??_

_A: It’s like an infection after an insufficient course of antibiotics._

_S: Wow, gross. What are you talking about_

_A: Undertreated crush syndrome. I want him much more than I remember wanting him in college. Proximity is the mother of me losing my goddamn mind._

_S: AAAaaaaahhhh_

_A: For someone who could be an arrogant ass for his looks and his everything, he’s shatteringly humble._

_S: oh honey_

_A: And he’s doing the thing_

_S: the adoring puppy thing?_

_A: yessss shoot me_

_S: are you kidding? Smitten you is one of my favorite yous. Come home so I can fuck you senseless_

_A: raincheck if I survive_

D’Artagnan can’t make himself track the conversation. 'Smitten, adoring.' He has to direct his eyes back to the lines on the phone. 'I want him much more...'

_A: how’s the parasite?_

_S: slightly less nauseating today? Ish. Ate four butter crackers._

_A: Do you want me to come home?_

_S: Ever? Yes. Now? No. YOU HAVE WORK TO DO_

_A: something is going on with them_

_S: ??_

_A: not sure. I don’t want to push._

_S: crossing my fingers it results in one of you ravaging the other_

_A: in what world?_

_S: THE BEST ONE_

There's more.

_S: good morning! Did you get laid last night?_

_A: you are unfailingly optimistic. And stunning. Have I told you lately how moved I am by your loveliness?_

_S: well?_

_A: ugh he’s out jogging ffs_

_S: yes physical fitness, so unattractive. TELL_

_A: no I did not and I’m not going to. This is a funeral thing. People are sad._

_S: really?_

_A: people are supposed to be sad_

_S: cause no one has ever reached out for sexual comfort after a death_

_A: you know what’s great though? Unrequited attraction. Much better than the requited kind_

_S: wrong_

D’Artagnan tries to swipe upward again, but that’s all there is. “It’s, um.”

“It’s about you, d’Artagnan. If you want to take it back, act like it was a crazy idea, I’ll respect that. But I’m saying yes, with the full support of my partner.”

Now, finally, d’Artagnan stops fighting and really looks at him, forgetting as soon as their eyes meet Athos’ phone cupped loosely in his palm. Athos takes d’Artagnan’s hand and the phone together, holds them both with one hand and with the other grabs a handful of d’Artagnan’s shirt at his waist.

D’Artagnan takes Athos’ slow blink for reassurance. Although this moment is impossible, was always impossible, he lets Athos tug him close and, _good Lord,_ brush his lips across d’Artagnan’s once. The lightest sensation. It electrifies the air around them.

When their lips meet again, d’Artagnan doesn’t let him get away.

 

Aramis is waiting in the kitchen when John emerges from his room with his overnight bag. “Glad I caught you,” he says.

“I gotta go, Aramis.”

“You really don’t. See, this is where it gets good, coach. The darkest moments come right before all the best stuff.”

“Pithy. Ecclesiastes?”

Aramis huffs a laugh. “Escape is never a better choice than facing your problems head on. Take it from me.”

“Yeah, I guess you should know."

“I should. Look where escape got me.”

“Aramis, I know you’re trying to help. But I’m not doing anybody any good here.”

“That’s crap and you know it. How about this for a plan? Apologize and then _don’t leave_. I predict it’ll work wonders.”

“I did apologize. She hates me.”

“Did she ask you to go?” Aramis drops a heavy hand on John’s shoulder. “It’s not too late. But if you leave, it might be.”

 

Upstairs, Porthos doesn’t have to do much but listen.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Louis Jr. begins, still climbing the stairs. “I can handle it. I mean, it’s not like Dad was a saint. I know it, Philip knows it. We know, okay? I know politics is… sticky. And shady sometimes, but if you want to get things done…. And I know he and Mom weren’t exactly happy. Or happy at all.”

“Relationships are hard,” Porthos tells him when the pause grows long.

“The point is, I know, all right? I just didn’t know _that_. I didn’t know Dad would…”

“You still don’t.”

Louis Jr. gives Porthos a glare worthy of both his parents. “I feel bad for Mom. Must have been humiliating. I mean.”

They can hear Anne and John arguing downstairs.

“Later,” Porthos assures him, “give her some time. After the game, give her a hug and tell her you love her. Moms love that.”

Aramis emerges at the top of the stairs with two beers. He hands one to Porthos and sits on the other side of him.

“That one for me?” Louis Jr. teases.

Aramis grins and throws back a mouthful of beer. “All in good time.”

“What, that was a hard game! Plus, emotional shit going on downstairs, half orphaned, I think I’ve earned a beer.”

Porthos chuckles and tips his bottle up for a sip.

Aramis smirks. “Doubt your mother would approve of your language.”

Louis Jr. rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

Aramis turns on the TV. The fourth quarter has started.

Porthos groans. “Fucking Hoosiers, still kicking our asses.”

Aramis shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling.

“Nice,” Louis Jr. tells him, settling back against the cushions.

Porthos leans against Aramis’ shoulder. “You love it and you know it.”

He does, is the thing.

They watch together in easy silence. Illinois finally puts Drake, Garcia, and Templeton on the court at the same time and John was right, they are better together. The score starts to even up.

“Looks like coach was right,” Aramis says, leaning to bump his shoulder against Porthos’.

Porthos shakes his head. Aramis hazards a peek; Porthos’ light demeanor has turned heavier. “What?” Aramis asks, barely a whisper.

“He’s.”  Porthos takes another sip. “He’s not always right. Sometimes he’s really wrong.”

“That was a million years ago.”

“I would’ve played in the NBA.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re on his side?”

“There aren’t sides. We’re all on the same side. Yours.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t hedge your bets. I had a shot at a real career.”

“You have a real career. Anyway, by now you’d be close to retirement, if you were lucky enough to still be playing without injuries.”

“And up several million dollars.”

“Maybe. Come on. Forgiveness, give it a try.”

Porthos glares at him.

“Then talk to him. Have you ever really talked to him about it?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Confronting him, swearing a lot, and storming out. Fantastic communication skills.”

“He knows how I feel.”

“And he didn’t cut you from the team. He brought in scouts for you. Not his fault they went a different way.”

“This sounds a lot like you taking his side.”

Aramis turns to face Porthos. After a second of hesitation, he lays his hand on Porthos’ thigh. “Listen. If you want to hold a grudge – if you’d rather be right than happy – go ahead. But I don’t think you two are all that far apart on this. I think you both could do with a good long talk.”

“What makes you think it’s worth it?”

“I remember how it was between you two before all this went down.”

 

Constance is working, her laptop balanced on the arm of the living room couch, legs folded up beside her, when Athos follows d’Artagnan inside. Athos pinches her knee as he walks past her and heads upstairs to catch the rest of the game. D’Artagnan sits down beside her, slips his hand under her arm. He lifts her fingers off the keyboard and softly kisses her knuckles.

She turns to him. “Is he okay?”

“We’re on,” he tells her, and kisses her hand again.

Her other hand flies to her chest – the laptop tips off the couch onto the floor, but she doesn’t care. She twists, practically climbs onto d’Artagnan’s lap and covers his face with sweet pecks before kissing his lips, these wonderful lips, this amazing man and his strange, marvelous heart.

“Really?” she squeaks.

(Upstairs, Athos hears her and _beams_.)

D’Artagnan silently nods and smiles.

She is the luckiest woman in the world.

“ _Really_ really?”

“Really,” he breathes, and kisses her exactly the way she loves. The way that makes her knees turn to mush.

Lucky and _nervous_. Wow. Her hands are shaking. Adrenaline? She could run a marathon right now. _Wow._

“What time is it?” she asks him, apropos of nothing.

“Three thirty? Four?”

“We need things! We need – and dinner! I’m gonna go get, um, _things_ and dinner. Tell everyone _don’t cook_.” She’s up and slipping her shoes on, losing her balance, giggling like a prom date. “Don’t start without me!”

 

A: You will not believe this.

S: not falling for that

A: can we talk?

S: SHUT UP are you serious

A: literally the opposite of what I asked

S: YES

A: to the talking?

S: you shit YESSSSSSS

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking: "It says explicit on the label!" And I answer (in my best Angela Lansbury Sondheimian mezzo) "wait, love, wait...."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: flights and goodbyes. But tonight?  
> Tonight they have all the time in the world.

**Saturday evening**

 

Constance has to turn off the radio in the car. Her head is clogging with lists. _Honey walnut shrimp, mu shu something, crab rangoon. Condoms for d’Artagnan and Athos. Chicken lo mein, Szechuan chicken, beef and broccoli. Astroglide._

She’s going to get pregnant in a matter of hours.

She’s going to have sex with Athos. So is her husband. _Holy shit._ They’re going to have a threesome.

If she’s lucky, she’ll come out the other end still married.

 _Stop that_. There’s room for his feelings for Athos. There’s always been room for them. They’ve been there all along.

A few miles down the road and her chest is rising and falling fast, her mind filled with the image of her devoted d’Artagnan under Athos, Athos kissing d’Artagnan into the pillow, d’Artagnan sandwiched between the two of them, soft and well-fucked, reaching behind him to pull Athos closer, d’Artagnan’s face in her hands, lips yielding, whole sweet self yielding to them both.

She misses the turn for the drugstore the first time, but not the second. Condoms, it has been eons since she’s bought them: they’re out in the boondocks here so the selection is thin. There are seven different kinds of Trojans though; she picks a twelve pack that looks sturdy, and laughs at herself because of why. _Asses are tougher than pussies, right?_ Can’t hurt, anyway. As far as lube goes, there are two different tubes of K-Y on the shelf and that’s it: one that looks totally simple and straightforward, and one that has crazy red lettering and flames up the side. She laughs again: she loves her husband too much to experiment with ass flames tonight.

Handing the lube and condoms to the elderly cashier, she puts on her most determined _speculate all you want_ face. Because tonight is a gift and she refuses to be sheepish about it. It could – will, it will – change everything. For the best, if that’s what they want, right? Or, because they are adults, they can just walk away, return to how things were, now with a new layer of appreciation for each other. An intimate new level of friendship. And a baby.

Sure, there’s risk. She could be different with Athos than she is with d’Artagnan. It’s likely, really. D’Artagnan could feel excluded, obsolete. Or he might find he prefers Athos to --

“No,” she tells herself out loud.

The cashier looks up, face white as a sheet already. “No?” he asks, freezing halfway through the transaction.

Constance’s attention zooms back to this drugstore, this moment, this poor, traumatized cashier. “Yes, I mean. Go ahead. Still want ‘em.”

By the time she pulls in to Lucky Panda, with its big red neon letters in a small strip mall, her heart is pounding a little less. She orders enough for a small army and waits.

 

John stares at the bunkbeds, still clutching the handle of his overnight bag in his fist. He’s at a crossroads.

All his life, he’s put duty first. It’s who he is. If he lets go of that, what else is left?

Why did he call Milady? What the fuck happened?

He should stop drinking. He should leave. He can’t string two thoughts together.

“Coach?” It’s d’Artagnan, in the doorway behind him. “Coming up? Game’s almost over.”

John’s thoughts stutter over the same fear, the same worry. He doesn’t answer.

“Come up,” d’Artagnan suggests, his voice softer now. “Come on.”

These guys aren’t kids anymore. They’re grown men. Good men. He can trust them to know what’s best. Certainly can’t trust himself right now.

John drops his bag and follows d’Artagnan upstairs.

 

The table is already set when Constance finally gets back. Anne, Louis Jr., Porthos, and d’Artagnan are in the living room; d’Artagnan meets Constance at the door with a kiss, and takes the two large handled bags full of cartons and containers. She follows him into the kitchen, where Athos and John are talking in hushed voices.

Constance freezes in the door. “Oh. Hi.”

John reaches for the plastic bag from the drugstore too, but she holds it in a death grip.

Athos comes around the kitchen table, right up against her side, and kisses her cheek, instantly gentling her. He breathes deeply, demonstrating calm. She breathes with him: _in, out, in, out._ Then he slips past her into the living room.

She wishes they could just fuck already. Waiting is making everything a million times weirder.

 

The only calm people at the table are Athos, unflappable as ever, and Louis Jr. The kid doesn’t stand on ceremony. He piles his plate high and plops himself at one end of the table before the adults have gotten anywhere close. Aramis looks to Porthos at the head of the table, who gives him a _might as well_ shrug and grabs the carton of Mongolian beef. Anne notices their shared moment and turns a curious eye to Constance, who bites her lip, still all but frozen in light of what is coming. She sits down in the seat between d’Artagnan and Aramis, and puts one eggroll on her plate knowing full well she is unlikely to eat more than a bite of it.

Anne waits for John to sit down, around the corner from Louis Jr., and then she takes a seat two down from him on the same side so she won’t have to watch him all through dinner. She’s still fuming, though part of her recognizes she’s overreacting, and maybe on purpose. Maybe she let herself blow up as an excuse to avoid dealing with his rejection. And once she recognizes that, it’s perfectly clear why she blew up about the Milady situation but not about his restraint. _His rejection, let’s call it what it was. No, he wanted it too. It’s complicated. He was right. He was a coward._

Somehow, she ends up with a small pile of shrimp lo mein and a spoonful of sweet and sour chicken.

D’Artagnan sits across from John, beside Louis Jr., and nearly matches Louis Jr. for sheer enthusiasm about the food. Athos lets himself notice, lets himself watch d’Artagnan’s forearms, the way his jaw works, the way his lips pucker as he sucks in the end of a noodle. And Athos smiles to himself, realizing he has never eaten with that kind of zeal or abandon. At least, Athos thinks he’s smiling only to himself; Constance catches it during one of the few moments her eyes dart in his direction. Aramis, on the other side of her from d’Artagnan, sees Athos’ smile right away. He lifts an eyebrow in question.

Porthos is about to ask Athos when he’s due for another sabbatical when John starts talking. “You really were good out there,” he tells Louis Jr.

“Thanks,” Louis Jr. answers between bites. “Thanks for letting me play with you guys. It was kind of a dream come true.”

“Don’t mention it,” Porthos says, and winks at him from the other end of the table.

“You interested in playing more seriously?”

“I mean, yeah.” Louis Jr. forgets his chopsticks in a mound of rice. “Definitely.”

“Great, you should.” John takes a sip of water. “I mean, as long as your mom is okay with it.”

Louis Jr. darts his mom a look. She shrugs. It’s not a no. “Cool, what do you recommend?”

“You need court time, and not with that jackass at Champaign West High.”

“I know, Dad can’t stand that guy.”

Everyone lurches into a sharp, sudden silence. The cruel precision of language: death insists on past tense.

“Couldn’t,” Louis Jr. corrects, very quietly.

“Your dad knew what he was talking about,” John responds, matching Louis Jr.’s drop in volume. “You don’t have to play on the high school squad to get noticed. There’s a community rec league that gets some real attention. I coached one of the coaches. I could get you a shot.”

“That would be awesome,” Louis Jr. says. He beams at his mom.

Porthos doesn’t notice his own breath shallowing, his teeth grinding, until he’s halfway out of his chair.

Of course, _of course_ John is intervening. _Helping_ , giving yet another kid a chance to play for… what? a few years? before John snatches it away again? Even if Louis Jr. was _that_ caliber, John is the last person he should trust to let him anywhere near the big time.

They all turn to look at him.

“Maybe don’t put all your eggs in John’s basket,” Porthos snarls.

John finally, deliberately, looks down the table at him. “You have something to say to me, Porthos?”

D’Artagnan stands, arms out over the table between them. “Guys. Not now. Come on.”

Constance gently tugs d’Artagnan by his waistband back to his seat. There is silence. They’ve all known this was coming, all but Louis Jr., who freezes halfway through a bite of eggroll.

“I know you fucked my transfer to Kentucky.”

John doesn’t say a word.

“I didn’t work it out at first,” Porthos continues, still standing. “The registrar said it was probably my incomplete in astronomy freshman year. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew it had to be you. You were the only one who could have fucked that deal.”

“Porthos,” John begins.

“That was my shot!”

John pushes his chair back. “Look. I’ll go.”

“Don’t you fucking leave.” Porthos’ voice seethes. “I want to know what motivates a coach to ruin his student’s chance at the motherfucking NBA. Explain it to me. Was it just so you could keep me around to win a few more games, get a little recognition for your sorry ass team? So you could say ‘look at this center I’ve got, maybe someday I’ll be a real fucking coach’? Tell me!”

What did John expect? Things like this don’t resolve on their own. And a man like Porthos doesn’t forget.

He should have explained a long time ago. At least.

John pulls his chair back in. “I went to Kansas when they were really shady. I thought it would be okay, that somehow it wouldn’t affect me. I played smart and I was fast. Their scout said I was the key. I was the missing piece in their team’s puzzle.”

Porthos doesn’t need his life story. But he has to admit that he remembers being told something similar, more than once.

“I had no guidance -- a shitty high school coach and parents who were just glad not to have to pay for college. And Kansas did need me. They played me constantly – in practice. I ran drills for the stars of the team, every position, didn’t matter. They worked me like a pack mule. The stars of the team got rest. They were played on a schedule that was carefully crafted to keep them fresh for the games, it was all orchestrated. But me? They worked me so hard I didn’t even have time to sleep, let alone recover or – god forbid -- study. They just got me tutors, like the rest of them.” John shakes his head. “Athletics tutors aren’t there to help. They did my work for me. It was all arranged. For most of my classes, I’d get an advance copy of the final. For others, I got to write a paper instead – or my tutors did. I didn’t learn a thing. And after all that, you know how often I played in the games? Twice. I got on that court twice in regulation play.”

Porthos sits down.

“I told them I was done, fuck the scholarship, if they didn’t play me I would quit the team. Coach says ‘fine, yeah, you’ll start this Saturday.’ But he doesn’t let up on the mule work, doesn’t even let me get in the groove of my own damn position. Just adds starting point guard to my plate, like it’s a gift. Like it wasn’t the thing I was promised when I signed my letter of intent.”

No one speaks.

“I don’t know, maybe all that made me a better coach.”

“You’re an amazing coach,” d’Artagnan tells him.

“I tore my Achilles in the second quarter. No one was watching out for me. I wasn’t a star, I was fodder. Surgery, couldn’t walk for two months. Then rehab, but we all knew I was never going to play again. So suddenly all the coursework I’d been forced to ignore was crucial to my future. I had to retake most of my classes going back at least two years. It took me six years total to graduate, with summer school, in a crap major the administration only approved to get me gone.”

John’s story hovers like a cloud over the table. Eventually, Porthos speaks. “If you had it so hard, why you would wreck it for someone else? Someone who trusted you? You knew better than anyone what the stakes were for me.”

“I did know.”

“So?” Porthos prompts, voice rising.

“Give him a chance,” Aramis urges softly.

“One of the assistant coaches from Kentucky called to ask me about you. March, I could barely spare the time to talk to him. But he wasn’t asking about what made you special. He didn’t give a shit about how graceful you were, how you fucking flew to the basket. No, he only cared how tough you were, how flexible on the court, how you handled exhaustion, and I knew what they were planning for you. Same as Kansas did to me. They’d drain you of everything and give you fuck all in return. Not even the education the whole damn enterprise is predicated on. You’d have graduated from Kentucky with a bullshit degree and no future at all.”

“You’re wrong. I was good enough to play in the NBA.”

“Kentucky wasn’t gonna play you! NBA doesn’t draft from the bench.”

“It wasn’t your place to make that decision!”

“Somebody had to look out for you!” Porthos fumes silently, but John isn’t done. “You don’t think I tried to get you picked up? I called scouts from all over the country, top tier schools with good professional recruitment records, I told them about you. Some of them came. I know you remember.”

Athos nods. Aramis nods. Porthos is statue still.

“I would have given anything to set you up with an organization that knew what they had in you.”

Porthos huffs, incredulous.

John makes a point of looking Porthos in the eye now. If he hears any of it, John needs him to hear this. “I knew, the minute you showed up at Castelmore, that you were one in a million. Better than I ever was, better than I deserved to coach. Even now, I look at you and….” John swallows around a lump in his throat. “For what it’s worth after so many years, you’re right. I failed you, in the way that mattered to you. But I just wanted to keep you safe. I cared about you too much to let you get chewed up by the system.”

Athos slips a loose hand over John’s shoulder, a little pressure to let him know someone supports him. After that, no one moves until Porthos stands up again.

Aramis squeezes Porthos’ hand, a wary reminder that he cares, they all care about him. “’S all right,” Porthos tells him, and his voice trembles a little. Unspent tears turn his eyes glassy. “Just need a minute.” A few quiet steps and he’s out the front door.

Once he’s gone, Aramis turns to John. “You did that for Porthos?”

“What, broke his trust? Wrecked his shot? Sure did.”

“No. You saved him.”

John shakes his head, defeated.

“ _Thank you_.”

 

Anne doesn’t know how one person can be so right and so wrong.

John does what he feels is right – not just for him, not even primarily for him, but for others. Intention – that’s the common thread. No matter what the outcome, John’s intentions are always good. It’s why she trusted him for so long, why Louie needed him in city government despite a total lack of experience.

And when he wouldn’t kiss her again this afternoon? Anne wants to believe that was good intentions.

Everyone’s drifted into the living room when Porthos comes back in. He’s holding his phone out in front of him. There’s a smile on his face. “What is that?” he asks, peering at the screen.

“My first blanket!” comes Flea’s exuberant voice. “Do you love it?”

“It’s the size of a place mat.” After a moment, he rolls his eyes. “But it’s a lovely place-mat-sized blanket.”

“Thank you,” she drones playfully.

Now he feels bad. “That’s a good blue. Very pretty.”

“It’s purple. But we don’t love you for your artistic discernment. How is everybody?”

Porthos looks around the room, a faint echo of his grin still on his lips. “Good,” he says, and he means it.

Athos pipes up. “Constance got us Chinese for dinner.”

(Porthos hands Athos the phone on his way to where John is sitting. John stands. “I didn’t understand. Now I do.” John nods. “Are we good?” Porthos asks then, holding his hand out to shake. John takes it. “We’re good,” John tells him, and pulls him into a quick, back-smacking hug.)

Flea moans hungrily. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice, sticky sweet short rib right now.”

“Come on,” Constance chides, “you’re on an adventure and loving every minute of it, I’m sure.”

But Flea won’t let the notion go. “Do you think Gourmet Garden delivers to the southwest?”

D’Artagnan has to laugh, hearing Castelmore’s favorite Chinese takeout place dug directly out of the past. “Chicago first, then they can start a franchise by you.”

“D’Artagnan! Let me look at the pretty, Athos.”

“I thought I was the pretty,” Porthos pouts as Athos hands the phone over.

“Show me the blanket,” is the first thing d’Artagnan says, that flirt.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Flea confides.

A moment later, d’Artagnan appears to be appraising something precious. “You’re a natural.”

“Stop,” she says, then, “no, tell me more. No, _actually,_ tell me more about your funeral getaway.”

Aramis mouths an apology to Anne.

“It’s okay,” she whispers back.

“Oh fuck, is that Anne?”

“Hi, Flea,” Anne sings, and waves when d’Artagnan turns the phone so Flea can see her.

“Sorry!”

“It’s okay. How are you?”

“Dying for news – shit, I mean, sorry! _Curious_ about how our boys are doing, since they suck at divulging the important details.”

“Well,” Anne says, taking the phone when d’Artagnan hands it to her. She casts her eye around the room, squinting. “Do you want the truth?”

Half a dozen eyebrows rise.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I would have survived this weekend without them,” she says, pressing each word. She doesn’t bother looking at the phone. This is about _them_ , her dearest friends, her family. Her gaze, suddenly thick with emotion, can’t help but finally land on John. “Thank you.”

John nods slowly, maintaining that eye contact they used to find with ease. His expression is clear: _anything for you_. It’s that look that triggers her tears.

Louis Jr. knows his cue. He crosses the room, sits on the ground beside her and hugs her legs.

He must jostle for a moment into the frame, because Flea squeals. “Is that?”

“Louis Jr.,” Anne finishes. She darts a wary look over Louis Jr.’s head at Aramis, but tilts the phone so her son can be seen.

Louis Jr. takes the phone. “College friend?”

“Ish,” Flea says. “Wooooowwww. Look. At. You.”

“You remember Louis Jr., don’t you?” Anne asks pointedly.

“I sure do,” Flea answers in the same tone.

“All grown up,” Louis Jr. supplies, misunderstanding. He’s heard this kind of reaction before. “Make you feel old?”

Flea whiffles a laugh. “Makes me feel… _something_. Listen, you go by Louis or Louie?”

“Louis.”

“Louis, I’m sorry about your dad.”

He doesn’t have much practice with condolences. This one catches him off guard. His lips fight a smile, turning it into an almost cartoonish frown. “Thanks. Sucks.”

“Sure does. Not least because you’re missing the new Captain America movie, willing to bet. Came out yesterday, you know.”

“ _I know!_ Did you see it?” Louis Jr. is suddenly bright, like someone turned all his lights on at once.

“Are you kidding? I’m in the middle of the fucking desert. I don’t even have a flushable toilet. I have _not_ seen it and I am seriously distraught.”

Louis Jr. continues to beam, despite their shared distress, because there was swearing and commiseration and because she gives a shit about Captain America.

“Bright side? That just means we can speculate freely. Zero spoilers and none of that annoying ‘trying not to spoil you’ face.”

“I hate that face.”

“Right? Fuck that face. And I haven’t found anyone who could even tell you what MCU stands for out here. So _talk to me_.”

“I’m your guy,” he says, plainly under Flea’s spell already. Porthos and Aramis share a smile.

“Well, Louis, I’ll be honest: I’m just waiting for Steve to declare his love for Bucky. Out loud.”

“Oh, you’re one of _those_.”

“What, don’t you want Steve to get laid? Where is your patriotism?”

Louis Jr. laughs.

And everyone else in the room releases their collective breath.

 

Constance realizes they’re waiting for her. Athos is holding his empty wine glass loosely in his hand, tipping it on the arm of his chair, and d’Artagnan is bouncing his knee, plainly not registering the conversation he appears to be watching.

“Right then,” she announces to the room, heart immediately pounding. She contemplates making excuses – tired, work to do, back in a minute – but she’s distracted by d’Artagnan’s face. She can see the teenager in it, lips open, eyes clear and hopeful. He waits on her word.

He’s hers.

Anne is wrapped up with Louis Jr.’s conversation with Flea, but she spares a quick glance. Constance’s turmoil must be plain on her face; Anne’s brow furrows in question.

“’Night,” Constance tells her, conjuring calm. And in case it will make any difference, she gives a tiny jut of her head toward John, sitting across the room: _talk to him_. Then she lurches out of the room and upstairs to the master bedroom.

If they want to follow, they’ll follow.

She can hear d’Artagnan behind her. “I’ll go check on her,” he explains, nearly on her heels.

She’s flipped on the bedside lamp when she hears him close the bedroom door behind them both.

“He’s not coming?” Constance whispers, rocking in his familiar embrace.

D’Artagnan shrugs. He’s worried, too, she can see it in his face. It’s strange, and a privilege, to see him like this -- he’s usually so confident. Constance pushes up onto her toes to press an insistent kiss to his lips.

“Whatever happens,” she says, smoothing his shirt across his chest, “I love you forever and ever and ever.”

A smile cracks d’Artagnan’s mask of worry and his whole face is transformed. “I love you more than you’d believe,” he tells her, and gives his lips back to her.

Behind his back, the door swings open and shut.

“Starting without me?” Athos says, setting down his glass on the dresser.

They break apart, but not completely; Constance slides her palm down d’Artagnan’s arm and threads her fingers through his. He holds her hand like a lifeline. “Welcome,” she says but it sounds so weird, so inappropriately formal in her ears that she immediately wants to rewind. “I mean, hi.”

Athos cups her jaw again, now facing her, and his face is softer, more open than she’s ever seen before. “Hi,” he whispers, and touches her lips with his, feather light. Her eyelids fall closed.

“How are you so calm? I feel like I’ve forgotten how to do everything,” she confesses.

Athos slips his hand further, behind her ear, around the nape of her neck. “It’s not a performance,” he murmurs. “You’re safe with me.” And as if to prove it, he sucks her bottom lip into a kiss.

“God,” d’Artagnan groans, flooded with the heat of it. Hearing himself, he exhales a laugh but it sounds like a sob. _Both of them._ How is possible to want two people this much? He feels like he’s being split in half, doubled somehow.

Constance squeezes d’Artagnan’s hand. Athos reaches for him, finds his hip, finds the waistband of his jeans and hooks his thumb inside. Only then does he pull away from Constance’s lips and, still holding her head, turn to d’Artagnan.

The sound that comes from d’Artagnan when Athos bites at his mouth? _That’s_ a sob.

Athos lets go of Constance and seizes d’Artagnan, grabbing a fistful of d’Artagnan’s hair. D’Artagnan’s mouth, after all these years, is _so good_ finally under his. D’Artagnan’s body, exquisitely responsive against his, absorbing the movement when Athos rocks against him, dancing with him. D’Artagnan’s head is deliciously heavy in Athos’s hands when he adjusts its angle to kiss him deeper. D’Artagnan, radiant and generous and _smitten_ , Athos dares to believe it now in the way d’Artagnan doesn’t let go, the way he lingers as each kiss wanes.

Athos only joked about his feelings with Sylvie because he never expected _this._ His crush was safe because it was impossible, Sylvie’s game encouragement notwithstanding. But with d’Artagnan clinging to him, Athos must face the years and years before Sylvie, when his longing for d’Artagnan was a constant, a touchstone. Every touch, every gentle insistence of d’Artagnan’s lips on his, resonates back through those fantasies. Athos will remind himself more than once tonight, he’s sure, that this is real.

 

Porthos and Louis Jr. are sitting on the couch side by side now, shoulder to shoulder, still chatting with Flea. By now, nearly fifteen minutes in, Louis Jr. is doing most of the talking. Porthos seems happy to watch Flea love every minute of it.

And Aramis watches Porthos.

Aramis is a champion liar. He’s lied to his friends, his family, his colleagues, to Porthos. To himself most of all.

But here he’s found his honesty. He’s made contact with the deepest, realest part of him. He let people touch him, and he showed his love for them by touching them back. He reconnected with the best men he’s ever known, men who are more brothers to him than friends. He spent the weekend getting to know his son. He buried Louie and made peace with Anne.

He’s come a long way. But there’s more left to be done.

Now that’s he’s wide open to the world, he finds he cannot take his eyes off of Porthos. There isn’t a part of that man he doesn’t love. And want.

Porthos, his best friend, his other half on the court. Porthos, who never lied, not in the ways that matter.  

Porthos, the brave one, who crossed the line back at St. Remi to give Aramis his mouth.

Porthos must feel the heat of Aramis’ gaze – Aramis realizes he’s been starting at him – because he looks up over the phone to Aramis like he’s been summoned. His face changes when he sees Aramis’ expression: there’s a question in the quirk of Porthos’ lip. Aramis is powerless to do anything but pump a faint, breathless nod. Porthos mirrors it and his eyes _sparkle_.

Is there a click, something audible to register the switch flicked inside of Aramis? The world shifts.

No loving God would deprive Aramis of this.

Aramis stands, nods his head a little toward the stairs and Porthos is pushing himself out of the couch to follow. Aramis is a snake charmer.

No, Porthos is. It just took Aramis twenty years to respond.

He heads for the stairs and doesn’t look for Porthos behind him. It’s Orpheus leading Eurydice; Porthos will be sucked back into the world where they are separate, where they have drifted so far apart that they only call each other friends out of habit, if Aramis checks to see. Aramis climbs to the second floor, opens the door to the attic and keeps climbing.

He hears a door open on the second floor. Porthos’ footsteps stop. Aramis freezes halfway up the third floor stairs, waits, _no, he must have misunderstood,_ but not more than ten seconds pass before that same door squeals shut again. Aramis holds his breath. More footsteps, and then he hears the hollow catch of the door at the bottom of the attic stairs.

Aramis starts up again and now his heart is pounding, flooding his ears with the noise of each pump. He’s in his room, he’s run out of stairs; he steps to the side, just out of sight. He lays his head back against the cool wall and blows out a wavering ribbon of breath. His eyelids fall closed.

If Porthos wants him still, after so long, after so many mistakes, Aramis will be his. More than that: Aramis _is_ his, has been all these years, whether Porthos wants him or not.

And if that’s the case, Aramis’ vows are meaningless.

So he lets them go, like doves into the sky.

“Hey,” Porthos says, mere inches away.

Eyes still shut, Aramis lifts his right hand slowly to Porthos’ chest, to the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He means to lay his palm flat but grabs a handful of shirt instead, twisting it around his fist. Porthos exhales hard but doesn’t move.

Aramis can’t seem to lift his left hand past Porthos’ hip. He grabs at the hem of Porthos’ shirt, at a belt loop, feels hot skin against his knuckles. His eyes fly open when Porthos rocks toward him. He can’t stop them from settling on Porthos’ full, moist lips.

“You sure about this?” Porthos asks, and then brushes his thumb over Aramis’ lip with painstaking attention.

The communion gesture vibrates through Aramis. _His._ He presses his lips to Porthos’ perfect mouth.

They freeze there a moment, on the precipice. Aramis is nineteen again and this is all he’s ever wanted. This kiss. It’s soft, trembling, wonderful. Porthos’ lips open and he sucks Aramis’ bottom lip between them. When Aramis flicks his tongue under Porthos’ top lip, Porthos groans.

Porthos wraps his big hand around the nape of Aramis’ neck and kisses him hard, opens Aramis’ lips with his mouth. He pins Aramis against the wall, hips against hips and Aramis grabs on with a sigh, splaying his palms over Porthos’ back.

 

Louis Jr. is laid out on the couch, feet crossed on its arm. He and Flea have progressed to the lesser known Marvel characters.

It’s just John and Anne now. John watches Louis Jr. from across the room. Or pretends to watch him, anyway. And Anne… is going to wash the dishes.

Inside the kitchen, out of sight of the living room, she dips a washcloth in steaming, soapy water and wipes it over a dish before rinsing it and slotting it in the drying rack. Then she takes the next one. The repetitive motion frees her mind to deliberately, once and for all, address her feelings for John.

She searches for pain, resentment about what John did, calling Milady, blocking Porthos’ transfer. It’s not there. Admiration? Certainly. Understanding that she didn’t know was there. And yes, she also finds the stale, familiar surprise that Louie is dead; she wonders when – if – that will fade. And guilt, a throbbing pulse of guilt because _she wants John_.

She does. She wants him.

After a minute, John is beside her at the counter. He silently takes out the first dish and dries it with a dishtowel. They do another, then another, Anne first, then John. They don’t speak, and they don’t look at each other.

John knows it’s a risk, trying to be near her. Or maybe it’s too late. Maybe he blew it by kissing her or maybe he blew it by stopping. Maybe he was never going to get through unscathed, living in her orbit. Maybe it was weak of him not to leave. His bag is still packed, lumped over lamely in the middle of her sons’ bedroom.

Or maybe Aramis was right. Maybe she hasn’t kicked him out for a reason. She seems to be at least tolerating his presence here beside her. They seem to have found a rhythm, as dishwashers at least.

One last dish. He reaches for it. Anne’s hand still clutches the rim.

“John,” she whispers, turning to him.

His last chance.

He kisses her before he thinks better of it, before he can think it through. He drops the towel between them and cups her face, he tries to be gentle but she whimpers and arches into him and that is _it_ , he’s pushing her back against the counter, bending her back over the sink. And when her tongue slides along his, when she opens her mouth wider and lets him in, he can’t quite hold back a groan.

“Mom, need any help in there?”

She pulls away instantly and just as quickly he lets go, jaw jutting, mouth gaping. “”m fine,” she calls back, breathless.

In the ensuing silence they’re frozen, staring at each other. They’re on the edge of a cliff. They can feel the drop-off yawning below.

“Told you she was fine,” Louis Jr. says, quieter. “She likes dishes, I swear.”

Anne’s heart is pounding with the near miss. She searches John’s face and finds _him_ , this man she has quietly fallen in love with, without quite realizing it.

She smiles.

John leans in to kiss her, slowly this time, but she stops him with a warning hand. They can’t stay in the kitchen – she couldn’t bear being interrupted again. Her bedroom is on the second floor, next to John’s and Athos’, next to Louis Jr.’s – it’s not nearly private enough. Den’s taken, master’s taken, upstairs is taken. Living room is occupied. There’s nowhere inside the house they can go.

So Anne leads him by the hand out through the garage, into the forest.

 

Constance watches, wide-eyed, as d’Artagnan opens his mouth for Athos, lets him in. Her lips fall open in unconscious sympathy.

Her beloved d’Artagnan, yielding in a way that is both familiar and entirely new, finally giving in to this part of himself he’s tucked carefully away. But she loves every bit of him, even this part. Maybe especially this, she realizes.

D’Artagnan’s hand slips out of hers as Athos pushes him against the wall, bracing him against it with hips and chest.

She watches Athos rock his hips against d’Artagnan’s. Watches as d’Artagnan’s eyes flutter open and closed again, eyeballs rolling under his eyelids, and his head bumps the wall with the sheer pleasure of Athos’ thrust. She sees d’Artagnan’s fingers thread through Athos’ hair when Athos turns d’Artagnan’s head to lick deeper into his mouth. And she sees the subtle shift when d’Artagnan takes the lead, sucking Athos’ bottom lip.

She knows that kiss, has to chuckle when Athos groans with the delicious strength of d’Artagnan’s lips. “He’s good, isn’t he?” she says, when Athos reaches behind for her.

“Distractingly so,” he answers in a wisp of a pause.

There is a small part of d’Artagnan that desperate wishes to be coached, right this moment. He is in uncharted waters. But that part can’t compete with the overwhelming need d’Artagnan has for Athos, the suffocating hunger he feels for Athos’ body, has felt for this man since before they could credibly be called men. Athos, _who said yes,_ saying yes every second, saying yes with his mouth and his grasping hands and his hips and his cock soon but even now it is hard, sliding along the hollow of d’Artagnan’s hip and that is enough (Athos does it again and d’Artagnan’s mind flushes, what’s left of him can only breathe a groan), that _promise_.

It was always going to be him. This is the only way tonight could have happened.

D’Artagnan nips along Athos’ jaw to his ear. He wants to make Athos _shiver_.

Athos reaches for Constance again. He brushes his thumb over her cheek, then pulls her closer.

Constance is breathless. “Honestly a bit surprised I’m not pregnant just from watching the two of you,” she whiffles, her eyes bright.

D’Artagnan curls an arm around her back, sliding his palm down her side.

Her eyelids flutter closed. “Here we go.”

“May I?” Athos asks, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

“Right,” she exhales, and watches every second of Athos pulling it up over head. D’Artagnan slides her skirt down over her legs, dragging his nails lightly over her skin on the upstroke. She lets out a breath that wavers like a laugh. “We can do this.”

D’Artagnan runs his fingers through the hair at her temple. “You know we can stop anytime.”

She looks between them both again. Their breath is shallow, and almost in sync. She shakes her head, quick and determined. “Green means go. Now why am I the only one getting undressed?”

Athos raises an eyebrow at d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan, lips twitching toward a grin, steps forward. He catches the hem of Athos’ shirt and pulls, one somewhat-less-than-smooth movement and there he is, bare to his waist. Athos grabs d’Artagnan’s shirt once his arms are free and does the same, fast, impatient. Constance rubs her hands – they’re suddenly cold and clammy – before she reaches for Athos’ hips. She kisses his collarbone, _okay,_ smiles to herself, and unfastens his fly. With a nip at the skin over his heart, she pushes his jeans and his underwear down his legs at the same time, bends a little to accomplish the task, and is rewarded with his two blue eyes sparkling at her when she comes back up.

“Are you really not nervous?” she asks him.

“I’m terrified,” he tells her, but between the smirk and the crinkling around his eyes she doesn’t know how to believe him.

D’Artagnan is behind her, smoothing his palm over the swell of her hip. He brushes her hair aside to reach where her neck curves in her shoulder and nips at the spot. When she lets her head fall away she feels Athos’ hand catch it, feels his breath on her lips, then his hands meet behind her back as he unhooks her bra. She lets the straps fall down her arms, lets the fabric fall to the floor.

Athos holds her in his arms, cradles her head, kisses her mouth open. D’Artagnan watches, she can feel him pause as the kiss begins, and then his fingers brush lightly over her nipples and down her sides. She can feel him against her back, against her ass, hard inside his jeans. His fingers dip inside the lace of her panties, and she knows all that’s separating his hand and Athos’ cock is this thin layer of fabric. D’Artagnan strokes outward; Athos’ kiss becomes, for just a second, a bit sloppy.

She can feel Athos’ hand twist in the small space between her back and d’Artagnan, can feel him drag his fingers down d’Artagnan’s belly, can feel his knuckles against the small of her back as he palms d’Artagnan’s cock through his jeans.

D’Artagnan’s breath stops, and starts again with a breathy groan.

Constance twists and steps a little out of the way, enough for Athos to seize d’Artagnan. Athos’ skin is pale in the dim light of the lamp. She strokes her fingers down his back, along his spine, then over the swell of his ass and down to his thigh. He seems somehow vulnerable, more real, like this. D’Artagnan clutches Athos’ face, sucking at his mouth as Athos undoes the buttons of d’Artagnan’s fly, one at a time while he gives himself to d’Artagnan’s kiss.

Constance’s other hand drifts up d’Artagnan’s leg once Athos has gotten rid of d’Artagnan’s jeans. He’s left d’Artagnan’s underwear on; d’Artagnan’s cock strains filthily at the cotton. Athos cups d’Artagnan’s ass with one hand. “Leave something for Christmas morning,” he explains, and squeezes a little.

D’Artagnan exhales a breathy chuckle.

Now, finally, Constance takes one hand each and tugs her two men toward the bed. “I want you with me,” she tells d’Artagnan.

“I’m yours,” d’Artagnan assures her.

She holds Athos’ face in her hands and kisses him, brushes her lips over his kiss-bitten mouth while she moves him up against the side of the bed. And then more, pushing until his knees bend. Athos pulls her with him, stroking up the back of her thighs and, before she can climb all the way on top of him, makes quick work of her panties. She kicks them away as she climbs into the bed.

 

Aramis could kiss Porthos forever. Nothing feels better than Porthos’ mouth.

Porthos’ hands pull and squeeze over Aramis’ shoulders, down his back, over his ass. Aramis wants all of it, wants Porthos everywhere. Porthos’ neck under Aramis’ mouth – Aramis tastes the salt and musk, nips at his skin, at the swell of muscle. Porthos pushes Aramis’ shirt up to his armpits, breaks their kiss only for the second it takes to pull it off and then Aramis grabs Porthos’ jaw in both hands, turning his head to kiss him deeper. Porthos groans into Aramis’ mouth. It’s so, so good.

While Aramis takes control of their kiss, Porthos lets his knuckles fall down the center line of Aramis’ chest, rough against the soft skin and down to where fine hair gathers again just under his navel. He strokes over Aramis’ belly, up his sides and back down to his waistband. Aramis’ grabs at the back of Porthos’ t-shirt. “May I?” he whispers against Porthos’ mouth, and Porthos barely needs to nod for Aramis’ to feel it. He pulls it up and over Porthos’ head, drops it at their feet, and then lets his palms take in every inch of Porthos’ exposed skin. Aramis can feel the muscles in Porthos’ back shift as Porthos holds him tighter, as he slides his fingers inside the gap of his waistband, down over warm cotton, and pins Aramis harder against the wall.

Aramis tugs the first button of Porthos’ fly open and the rest follow like dominoes, like Aramis has had practice. Porthos huffs a _huh_. Two breaths, mouths gaping, lips less than an inch apart, and Aramis twists his hand to cup Porthos’ hard, straining cock.

“Jesus,” Porthos breathes.

“Not helping.”

Porthos exhales a laugh and curls a restrained thrust into Aramis’ palm.

“Okay,” Aramis whispers. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Porthos echoes, waiting for Aramis.

Aramis nods, “yeah,” and then kisses him, a soft brush of lips. “Couch,” he suggests, jutting his chin at the pull-out in the middle of the room.

They don’t separate: Porthos takes Aramis’ face in his hands for a good, deep kiss and Aramis, his mouth at least at Porthos’ mercy, walks them both backwards, steering by Porthos’ hips, until Porthos falls back onto the couch cushions.

Porthos tries to pull Aramis on top of him. “Wait,” Aramis tells him, flashes a glimpse of a grin, and bends to tug Porthos’ jeans over his hips. He can only meet Porthos’ simmering gaze for a second before he turns his attention, very deliberately, to pulling the jeans down Porthos’ thighs, over his knees and, when the fabric bunches at his shoes, tipping them both off to finish the task.

When Aramis is done, he’s left kneeling in front of Porthos. He looks up to see an utterly besotted Porthos, shallow breaths lifting and deflating his chest, watching him. Aramis licks his lips, doesn’t break eye contact. He feels wild. He stands, holds Porthos’ gaze while he unfastens, slides down, and finally kicks off his own jeans, underwear too. He’s so hard, so exposed, he worries for a moment he might pass out but Porthos reaches for him, takes his thighs and pulls him closer until Aramis has to straddle him – wants to, is desperate to. Porthos’ palm skates down Aramis’ spine as he opens his plush, swollen mouth under Aramis’ lips.

Aramis lowers himself onto Porthos’ waiting hips, Porthos’ thick cock under a thin layer of cotton. Porthos sits up a little, nuzzles into the hollow of Aramis’ neck and Aramis can’t help but grind into him. Porthos purrs, lets his palms rest on Aramis’ ass. It doesn’t feel like direction. It’s reassurance. Porthos absorbs the next helpless thrust, and the one after that.

Aramis catches Porthos’ jaw to turn his face up, to bring Porthos’ lips back to Aramis’ mouth. Porthos was always so strong and this, Aramis is sure, is what his strength was meant for: for being strong enough to hold them both upright as Aramis pushes him with every rocking thrust back against the cushions.

But Aramis _craves_ Porthos’ cock, still straining under cotton. So he sits back, climbs off Porthos’ thighs and asks in a low whisper, “would you mind? May I?” He kneels again, hooks his fingers inside the waistband of Porthos’ underwear, and waits.

“Yes,” Porthos tells him.

“Wait, yes you mind?”

Porthos rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “Yes you may take off my clothes, you idiot.”

Aramis smiles at him. “Just want to be sure.”

“For the record,” Porthos continues, “I don’t see a ‘no’ on the horizon.”

“Yeah?” Aramis asks, and a small corner of his mind marvels at how little time it takes to communicate anticipation, fear, excitement, longing. That one word and he’s twice as exposed as he was.

Porthos sits up and kisses the tip of Aramis’ nose. “God, yes.”

Aramis kisses him. “Probably don’t want to bring Him up right now either.”

Porthos barks a laugh, loud enough that Aramis’ reflex is to twist and see if anyone heard. “Hey,” Porthos says, catching Aramis’ chin, brushing his thumb over Aramis’ lips again. “We’re okay.” A fervent peck and, holding Aramis’ gaze, Porthos sits back, lifting his hips to let Aramis pull his underwear off.

Porthos’ cock is astonishing. It’s lies on his belly, long enough to touch his hipbone, and it’s wide, even wider in the middle and slick at the tip and Aramis realizes his mouth is watering. He licks his lips, still staring, still kneeling. He almost asks for permission again but stops himself when, under his gaze, it twitches. Instead he looks away long enough to make eye contact with Porthos, whose expression has lost all playfulness. Porthos’ eyes drift closed in a slow, overwhelmed blink. And then he opens his knees and Aramis melts between them.

Aramis takes the shaft in a loose grip, noses a line up the base, kisses it gently. He can hear Porthos let out a heavy breath; he tongues Porthos’ cock into another kiss, higher, then another. The heady smell of Porthos surrounding him – Aramis is drunk on it. He licks up the vein, lifts Porthos’ cock upright, sits up high on his knees and with a deep breath, a sigh and a wave of rightness through his body, he opens his lips. Rightness, yes: it’s spectacular, the feeling of Porthos’ cock hot on Aramis’ tongue, stretching his lips. He exhales and takes it deeper, doesn’t care if he gags or chokes, he wishes he could swallow it down but the most he can do is take it as far as it will go. He sucks, swallows. Sucks again, harder.

“Fuck. Aramis.”

Aramis feathers his fingers over Porthos’ hips and holds them where they are. He pulls his lips tight over Porthos’ length and sinks down again, as far as he can. Porthos’ palm rests on Aramis’ neck, then his cheek, then the side of his head, fingers in his hair.

Aramis wants it all. He wants Porthos to come on his tongue, wants to feel Porthos’ fist tighten around his cock, wants –

“Stop, stop, I don’t want to come yet,” Porthos protests, breathless.

Aramis stops but he won’t let go.

“Come up here,” Porthos says, and pulls Aramis’ face to his.

Aramis’ mouth is soft, his lips swollen and stretched, and Porthos kisses it better. He guides Aramis back on top of him and now, oh now there’s nothing between them at all. Porthos’ cock is still wet with spit and Aramis’ is drippingly slick; Porthos wraps his hand around them both and drags his fist up once.

Aramis’ mouth falls open. He rests his forehead against Porthos’ nose.

“Good?”

“I wish…” Aramis drifts off as Porthos’ slides his fist down and pulls up again, tighter. “Fuck…”

“What do you wish?” Porthos insists. He licks just inside Aramis’ mouth, gathers his lips into a kiss. “Anything, Aramis.”

Aramis can’t help but thrust into the down stroke.

 

Athos swipes his palm along Constance’s side. “Come ‘ere,” he says, low and soft.

She melts into him. When she slots her thigh between his legs she feels more than hears his moan.

“You’re both so beautiful,” d’Artagnan murmurs.

Constance reaches behind her for d’Artagnan’s hand; he lets her clutch it as tightly as she needs to.

There is some reorganizing as Athos slides all the way onto the bed and Constance pulls the covers down to the footboard, but quickly there’s room for all three of them.

Constance straddles Athos, kneeling on either side of his hips. Athos is pale beneath her, nearly the same dawn pink as her own skin. She is torn: she wants to explore the surprise of his body, the trail of sparse hair that gathers as it drifts lower, the sharp jut of his hipbones and the faint scar across his right thigh, wants to explore even under Athos’ patient, bemused gaze, but she can’t ignore the charge between them, how desperate she is to have him inside her.

D’Artagnan is behind her now, kneeling against her back. He sucks a kiss to the join of her neck and her shoulder. “I love you,” he whispers against her skin, so softly she’s not sure he’s said it and maybe it’s only for him, not for her at all. “I’m with you,” louder now.

Athos sits up to kiss her lips, and she follows him back down to the pillow before sitting back up until she can let D’Artagnan’s chest support her. It’s his fingers she feels first, two fingers sliding along her slit, along Athos’ cock, to where she’s wet. He exhales heavily, always does when he’s first inside her, like it’s a relief. He scissors his fingers wider to open her. She only has to lift her hips and her sweet, perfect d’Artagnan guides Athos’ cock inside.

Athos watches her, watches them both. Constance leads, dictating their rhythm; it’s slow, a rolling thrust that curls up through her body before she allows another. And d’Artagnan behind her, one hand cupping her ginger tuft, giving her what he has learned she needs, two fingers, back and forth and the other hand holding her upright against him, his arm wrapped under her breasts. He kisses her neck – her eyes are closed, her curls hide his mouth but his eyes, those dark worshipful eyes haven’t left Athos’.

The two of them, and the way d’Artagnan is looking at him, the way he has in the past but now almost volcanic, it’s so much, maybe too much. She sighs, low in her throat, and there’s mischief in his eyes. She’s nearly there, d’Artagnan knows, d’Artagnan’s done it, and now Athos can’t keep his hips from thrusting. His hands fly to her hips and she rides him harder, faster. Her rolling thrusts become sharp, demanding. Athos reaches past her to d’Artagnan’s thigh in the moment before she comes.

D’Artagnan feels like he’s fucking them both. He absorbs Constance’s thrusts, knows Constance’s rhythm, her breath, knows exactly how perfect her pussy feels swelling around Athos’ cock, clutching at it when she comes. And he somehow knows by Athos’ fingers tensing into a claw around his thigh, by the arch of his back that Athos is close. Athos’ mouth gapes open when he comes, it’s gorgeous – he wants that, he wants to field the rush of Athos’ orgasm, wants to be subject to what Athos’ body does, what it needs – what it _takes_ \-- when Athos loses control.

D’Artagnan is inches from his own orgasm. He leans back away from them, his two loves, as they expand and contract together with breath in the aftermath. He’s sweating, he’s hard as stone. He feels wild, electrified, halfway to sobbing with need after what he’s just seen.

 

The night is moonlit, the air crisp with chill. Anne follows the path she took to the boulders, her heart in her throat, and tugs him along behind her to the hollow.

When she knows they’re out of sight, she pauses. Listens. John doesn’t wait for her to turn around. No, he takes her waist in his warms hands, sucks a kiss to her long neck. She can feel her breath tremble. She reaches back into his hair. It’s softer than she would have thought; he’s more tender than she realized he could be. He scrapes his teeth over a pulse point. He encircles her with one strong arm; the other hand rises up her side to the swell of her breast.

She twists in his arms, impatient for his lips,and arches into him again. He absorbs it all: her hunger, everything she hasn’t said. He kisses her like she’s his salvation.

An image from the afternoon flashes in her mind: the freckles across his chest. It knocks the wind out of her – those freckles, _Christ,_ hidden under his clothing. Scattered like little kisses over his pale, vulnerable skin. She kisses down his neck, stretches the neck of his t-shirt to get at even a few. His skin is hot despite the chill. Another whimper forces itself out of her. Her hands scramble for the hem of his shirt; she skates her palms over his back, up over his shoulders, over where his freckles are hiding.

John’s breath hitches when her cool hands touch him. _This_ is what he’s wanted, _who_ he’s wanted, what he hasn’t been unwilling to face head on. He falls on his knees, _Anne,_ pushes her shirt up to press his face into her belly, clutching her hips to hold her closer. He kisses her soft, delicate skin, catches her waistband and tugs it to reveal more gorgeous, trembling skin.

He feels Anne’s fingers working under his chin and then her waistband goes loose and he realizes what she’s done. She threads her fingers through his hair, a gentle invitation, and he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls her waistband down, catches the soft cotton of her underwear on the way, down to her knees. And now, _now_ he opens her with his tongue, he tastes her. He leads with his chin, pressing it between her thighs until she has to spread her legs wider and find her balance again. He holds her hips, he could stay here forever, he could drown in her –

She says his name.

 _Yes._ He pushes deeper, searches with his tongue for the source –

“John,” she repeats, and tugs at his hair.

He lets his head be pulled back, dread seeping in at the edges, but Anne only needs to lean on his shoulder so she can kick off her shoe and pull a leg out of its tangle of fabric. _Relief_ : she wants this, and before she can see to the other leg she seizes his shirt, turns it inside out as she pulls it up over his head.

They are both nearly frantic at the strain of waiting. He stands into a new embrace, this one open-mouthed and chaotic as he walks her back against the wall of boulders hiding them from sight. She reaches between them and unbuttons his fly, opens it and her hand twists to grab his cock without a beat. Their kisses are messy now, lips and breath reaching while they both focus on freeing John’s cock (he shoves his clothes down his thighs, good enough) and then getting her up high enough that he can finally, _so close --_

She braces one arm on the rocky edge beside her, stable enough and now she can wrap a leg, both legs around John’s waist. She’s too high at first but then, _there he is,_ they’re just right. She squeezes her legs around him for better purchase, reaches between them again, puts his cock where they both want it and then, their mouths both gaping, holding their breath, she sinks down onto him.

John waits for her to breathe again. He watches her expression transform from need to something new, something utterly sublime. He watches her feel him, savor him, and he can’t help the groan that pushes out of his throat when she squeezes her legs around him tighter and pulls him in deeper.

They start slow. They have to be careful: this is precarious, so much could go wrong. He braces her back against the rock, holds her ass in both his hands and, after another messy, desperate kiss, pushes into her again. He sobs another moan at the sheer perfect overload of sensation, the smell of her skin, the wet slip of her surrounding him, the heat and strength of her body working with his, and he buries his face in the sweet hollow of her neck. She grapples with her free arm, one tense hand over his shoulder, but he’s got her. He’s got her. Between the rocks and the way she fits in his hands, the way she groans when he fills her – he’s got her.

 

Porthos had no idea how good it could be, when he imagined this all those years ago. Watching Aramis lose his composure, watching him surrender to sensation is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life and Porthos greedily wants more. He brushes Aramis’ lips with two fingers; Aramis sucks them in, swirls his tongue around them. Aramis is gorgeous, _that face,_ heartbreaking how he can’t get enough. Porthos takes back his fingers and Aramis plainly misses them, the way he seizes Porthos’ mouth.

Now Porthos trails a line down Aramis’ spine, down and down to his ass until he finds his hole with those two wet fingers. He’s so light over it but Aramis breathes the most delicious, pained moan right into Porthos’ mouth. Porthos traces around it; Aramis helplessly trembles.

“Would you let me fuck you, Aramis?”

“I wish you could,” Aramis confides.

“Is that what you wish?” Porthos traces with more pressure now.

Aramis nods in between kisses. “Don’t we need…? I didn’t bring… I mean…” He’s nearly incoherent, whimpering with want.

“Why do you think I stopped in my room?”

Aramis moans. “Really?”

“Pocket of my jeans.”

It’s not graceful, but between the two of them they manage to wrestle the small container of lube and three condoms out of Porthos’ pocket. Again, Aramis’ forehead comes to rest against Porthos’ nose. “Should we make this into a bed?” Aramis breathes.

“I don’t want to wait that long,” Porthos tells him, and hitches Aramis’ thighs higher on his hips. He flips open the top of the lube and smears some on his fingers. He kisses Aramis once before sliding one slick finger under his ass and, with slow, steady pressure, just inside.

The sound Aramis makes, _good lord_. “Listen to you,” Porthos breathes against Aramis’ mouth.

Porthos knows exactly how to open someone up, how to take it slow and make it feel nothing but good. Aramis’ eyelids fall closed and his head falls back, exposing a straining stretch of neck Porthos reminds himself to devour later. But for now, he twists and curls his fingers inside of Aramis while he watches Aramis’ face reflect every shade of feeling.

Porthos is careful not to rush. Maybe too careful, he realizes, when Aramis finally growls. “Just fuck me, Porthos.”

Porthos chuckles, and hands Aramis the condom. He waits, watches those precise fingers as Aramis rolls it down over his cock. Then Porthos pulls Aramis closer until he’s kneeling above Porthos, straddling Porthos’ hips, and for a second anxiety clouds Aramis’ face. Porthos and Aramis each have one hand on Porthos’ cock. “Take it slow,” Porthos reminds him. “Okay?”

Aramis kisses him in answer and then, letting out a low breath, works himself carefully down. He does it by degrees, a little at a time, and both their mouths are gaping now, Aramis’ eyes scrunched shut and Porthos’ wide open, unwilling to miss a second of this. Preparation notwithstanding, Aramis clenches at every bit of progress; Porthos understands. He remembers his own first time, and whether or not it’s Aramis’ first time it’s the first in a long time, long enough that Aramis could be as scared as he is ready.

So Porthos takes Aramis’ twitching cock and pulls his fist with just enough grip up and over the head. Aramis relaxes a little with a breathy groan. Porthos does it again, and again, and soon Aramis is past anxiety, past hesitation, past thought, alternating between fucking Porthos’ fist and stretching back to take Porthos in to the hilt.

 

Adulthood, perhaps, is knowing how precious a moment is as you watch it drain away.

Anne watches John’s face when he comes. She wouldn’t miss it. He’s restrained, even then; only a glimpse of pleasure and it looks like pain.

 

Constance rolls off of Athos with a satisfied sigh. She’s smiling with every inch of her face, with her whole body, d’Artagnan’s heart clenches at the sight: _she thinks it’s going to work_. Athos gives her one last kiss, a tender peck, and brushes the hair from her forehead. _Beautiful._

Then everything shifts. Before Athos even touches him, just from the look Athos gives him when he turns from Constance, d’Artagnan bites back a groan. Athos gathers himself onto his knees, doesn’t even stop to kiss him. He pulls d’Artagnan closer by his hips. “Off,” Athos rasps, tugging d’Artagnan’s frankly ruined underwear over his trembling legs. He pushes d’Artagnan back until he’s lying across the bed.

“Kiss me,” d’Artagnan begs, and Athos is helpless. A moment and he’s hovering above d’Artagnan’s desperate face, melting into his mouth.

D’Artagnan tries to hold back but after everything, and now Athos is _here_ , against him, skin to skin, d’Artagnan can’t help but thrust against Athos’ hip. Athos rears back, blue eyes dark now, and kisses down the center of d’Artagnan’s chest – with a detour to one achingly sensitive nipple – to his twitching, impatient cock.

Constance slides against d’Artagnan’s side. Her skin is hot still, and soft. She takes his hand, kisses his shoulder. “I love you,” she tells him.

Athos licks at the slick tip of d’Artagnan’s cock and then it’s his whole mouth, Athos’ mouth on him, Athos sucking his cock so perfectly into his throat, greedily sucking him. Athos’ hands are wide over d’Artagnan’s hips and then they slip around and now –d’Artagnan can’t imagine surviving this -- Athos is holding his ass, fingers massaging as he pulls long drags along d’Artagnan cock with tight lips, sucking d’Artagnan inside his unbelievable mouth.

D’Artagnan tries not to fuck Athos’ face, he does, but he can’t help it. His body won’t listen to him anymore, it refuses to hold back, he has to _fuck him_ and he comes before he can give Athos any warning, explodes right there on Athos’ waiting tongue.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan gasps, still reeling.

“Don’t be sorry,” Athos says a few moments later, licking his lips. “You were gorgeous.”

“You really were,” Constance adds.

“It happened too fast,” d’Artagnan tries to explain.

Athos slides along the other side of d’Artagnan’s panting, glistening body. “That was only round one.”

 

Aramis was made for fucking Porthos. His whole body sings with the pleasure of it. Porthos is everywhere – around him, under him, inside him. Porthos encourages him, gives him his cock and his fist to fuck and Aramis may be in charge but he is powerless to stop. His body rocks and thrusts; each direction, pleasure breaks like waves, wave after wave while Porthos _watches him_ and maybe that’s what it is that drives Aramis all the way there, how right it is to come like this, exploding like fireworks in Porthos’ lap.

When Porthos follows it is the most perfect sound Aramis has ever heard.

 

It’s got to be past midnight in Illinois, and Flea can see the kid is tired, so she starts talking about weaving techniques. Soon the screen goes almost totally dark except for one blurred green patch, a wrinkle that lets in enough light from the side to be visible. His breath is even, and the blur of green shifts with the rhythm of it. She waits a bit longer before she hangs up.

_Holy shit. He looks exactly like Aramis._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks again to Amistosa for keeping my basketball rants credible. Thanks also to Mellyflori and latbfan, for reassurance as I worked through the long snog slog I have fondly referred to as Fuckapalooza for the last few weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have to leave sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, hysterical thanks to Mellyflori for her close read, her much needed wisdom, and her oh-so-delicious enabling.

**Midnight**

 

As the minutes tick by, exhilaration gives way to anxiety. Constance finds herself distant, watching Athos snuggle in behind d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan brushes the hair from her face. He leaves his palm on her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Constance rolls her eyes a little as she shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I’m being an idiot.”

Now d’Artagnan starts to look worried.

“No, nothing like that. I just – what if it doesn’t work? What if it doesn’t… take?”

Athos stretches behind d’Artagnan. “Then we’ll just have to try this again next month.”

Constance searches d’Artagnan’s eyes; it only takes a second before they’re alight with anticipation. He nods, biting back a bright grin.

“Okay then,” she says, nodding along with her husband. _Again._ They can try and try until they hit the baby jackpot. The worry in her gut gives way.

D’Artagnan gathers her close, tracing the slopes and valleys of her side with a lazy, warm hand. She nuzzles into him, and feels more than sees Athos, on the far side of d’Artagnan, slotting knees behind knees, hips behind hips.

She closes her eyes and listens as their three breath rhythms become one.

 

John sets Anne gently on the ground. She takes John’s face in her hands and kisses him softly.

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks.

Yes, she does: she wants him, and she can’t have him. Not again. Not for a long time.

When they’re both dressed, she slips his arm around his, nestling it against his side (safe, she feels so safe with him). They begin to walk back to the house.

“I wish we could stay here,” she says, looking back over her shoulder at their haven.

John doesn’t breathe for a second and Anne fears what it sounds like: _well, that was a nice one night stand_. It sounds like a callous period on the end of a long, tenuous sentence. And at first she wants to explain, _no, I wish this could be the beginning. I wish we didn’t have to go back to the real world._ But every wish exposes the hard truth, that this is the end.

“I wish,” she attempts again, already hopeless.

“Me too,” he says, and it feels like absolution.

She squeezes his arm. He leads her back through the garage. But before he opens the door at the threshold of the kitchen, he presses a kiss to her forehead. She holds him tight.

And then they let go.

 

Porthos lies face down beside Aramis on the thin mattress, his arm drooped loosely over Aramis’ chest. It’s been at least an hour since Porthos fell asleep and a good forty five minutes since Aramis stopped pretending he did, too.

Porthos’ sleeping face is astonishingly good. His slack lips are a pink interrupted kiss and his eyes, even closed, are the beginning of a smile. The flirting slope of his nose, the broad kindness of his cheekbones, the bashful way his eyelashes feather over his cheeks: these are simple, perfect things.

Aramis drinks in the vision of him like the desert does rain.

He can hardly conjure what it was like, before: before he knew the strength and softness of Porthos’ lips, before he had ever heard the sounds he makes (those _sounds_ ), before he was finally brave enough to beckon Porthos up the stairs. Before everything changed.

Porthos curls onto his side. His eyes open slowly; in the unfettered moonlight, they are fairy-tale bright. Aramis can’t look away. “What?” Porthos whispers.

“You,” Aramis answers him.

Porthos doesn’t have to reach far to pull Aramis close. He nuzzles under Aramis’ chin and presses a sleep-warm kiss to his throat. “I missed you.”

“While you were sleeping?” Aramis supplies with something like a giggle.

At that, Porthos pulls away to show him an earnest, vulnerable face.

Aramis licks his lips. “Me, too.”

“Why are you awake?”

“I didn’t want to miss a second of tonight.”

Porthos doesn’t quite grin at that.

No, Porthos _smolders_ , and it knocks Aramis out. Porthos, hungry. Hungry for _him_. It’s impossible to imagine Aramis would ever get used to this feeling. Aramis’ breath goes shallow and loud in his ears, but he’s smiling his own small smile when Porthos kisses the curl of his lip.

It occurs to Aramis, for a sliver of a moment, that maybe Porthos will misunderstand and assume he means tonight will be their only night. His lips part, ready to explain that he won’t want to miss any of the nights they are sure to have together, stretching far into the future – including the Tuesday in January 2035 when they get snowed in and the power goes out, he won’t want to miss a moment of that, either.

But all worry abandons him when Porthos rolls him back on the pull-out mattress, dragging his palms over Aramis’ chest slow and heavy while he looks him right in the eye. Porthos obviously understands. Aramis can’t breathe with the quake that goes through him.

This is his life, finally unfolding.

He lets his eyes close and feels Porthos, sweet, attentive Porthos push himself up and over him. Porthos kisses each eyelid.

“Yeah, lie back and let me…”

Porthos doesn’t need to finish the sentence. First, Aramis’ neck: Porthos starts at the hinge of his jaw and pushes gentle, insistent kisses into his skin, down along his neck. Aramis tastes sweet and salty and _real_. He turns Aramis’ head to the side so he can suck along the swath of muscle there. He wraps his hand around the nape of Aramis’ head and lifts, stretching Aramis’ neck just like it was when Aramis showed it to him and, with a low growl, he devours it.

Aramis’ collarbone is sharper now that he’s slighter, the hollow at the base of his neck pronounced in a way it wasn’t when they were kids. He traces the bones with his thumb, kissing Aramis’ chin when Aramis chuckles. “Shut up,” Porthos chides him playfully, and Aramis obeys.

Porthos waits for the clouds to pass, waits for Aramis’ face to go serene again before he traces Aramis’ shoulder, where the muscles come to an inverted point and swell again in his arm. Porthos kisses that point, then next to it, drifting to where the skin goes softer and fragile. He noses into Aramis’ armpit; the faint smell of Aramis’ deodorant is spicy but he knows it would only taste awful – it’s a taste that doesn’t leave your mouth for days, he remembers, but someday…. Someday when they’re both fresh from the shower, Porthos will show Aramis how sensitive an armpit can be.

He growls again, thinking of where else his tongue will go after that shower, of Aramis laid out on his belly, skin flushed from the heat of the water, relaxed and so receptive.

But here and now is miraculous enough. Porthos kisses every rib, like tip-toeing down stairs, to the valley of Aramis’ belly where his kisses sink deeper. Porthos stops short, and lays the side of his face against Aramis’ fevered skin. He listens to Aramis’ heartbeat, feels the power of its double pulse, and he sends up a prayer of thanks to whoever is responsible for Aramis’ perfect heart. Soon Aramis’ fingers are soft in Porthos’ hair. Porthos rouses himself and, with a push of a kiss above Aramis’ navel, he slides lower.

Aramis’ cock has grown harder as Porthos has made his way down. Now it’s thick and waiting. Porthos brushes first his hand, then his lips over Aramis’ hip and lower, along his thigh. Aramis is watching him now, Porthos can feel it and he loves it. (He’ll give him something to watch when he comes back to his cock, but for now, patience.) He doesn’t budge, massaging the meat of Aramis’ leg until Aramis’ head falls back against the pillow with a low sigh. Then he moves – lower still – to Aramis’ knee, to the kneecap with the scar he never forgot, to the sinewy bend and the knife-like bone dividing his calf where, he recalls with perfect clarity now, there were once bruises and scrapes and sweat. He bends Aramis’ leg so his foot braces on the bed and traces the lines of Aramis’ ankle, the impossibly soft skin on the top of his foot, feathering his fingers along the bones of his foot to his toes. And that’s not all. There’s another leg left.

Aramis recognizes reverence -- true, heartful reverence – when he sees it. He knows what this is.

This is worship.

 

With Constance warm and reassured in front of him and Athos drowsily affectionate behind him, d’Artagnan drifts. Until. In a shallow between two sleepy depths, he remembers Athos’ mouth on him, Athos and Constance together… and he’s awake.

The three of them lie bare under a sheet and a heavy, warm quilt. D’Artagnan shifts, arching his back, rolling his hips back against Athos. Athos takes a deep breath and curls closer. He settles a hand gently on d’Artagnan’s thigh and they breathe together, faster now. The skin under Athos’ hand prickles; d’Artagnan slides his own hand over Athos’, encouraging him. So Athos brushes his fingers down d’Artagnan’s thigh and back up again. D’Artagnan breathes with the movement, breathes with the stretch behind him that comes next. Athos’ mouth is on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, a kiss that opens, that moves to his neck. D’Artagnan hums with the shiver it sends through him, and Athos echoes it with his own.

Athos brushes lightly up his side and around, across his belly.

Now Constance’s eyes flutter open. D’Artagnan is acutely aware of how he must look to her: flushed, lips full and open. He’s bare and hard and vulnerable and desperate for more, he knows she can see it all, but what she reflects back at him settles his heart: that sweet smile, and the sparkle in her eyes. She’s eager for what’s coming, nearly as eager as he is.

She bites her lip, threads a hair behind his ear, and nods. “Don’t let me stop you.”

D’Artagnan kisses his gratitude against her lips, a kiss as sweet as her smile.

Still on his side behind d’Artagnan, Athos’ hand ventures lower until his fingers encircle the base of d’Artagnan’s cock. D’Artagnan’s body bows outward, into Athos’ hand, with a groan.

“Look at you,” Constance breathes, and pushes the covers off them all.

Athos’ eyes are covered by his hair and d’Artagnan’s, but his mouth gapes open in sympathy with the first tight pull up d’Artagnan’s cock. And d’Artagnan… she’s never seen him so utterly abandoned.

She scoots back so she can watch d’Artagnan fuck into Athos’ hand, so she can see Athos thrust against d’Artagnan’s ass. And she knows she can be seen as well – could be, if either of them had their eyes open anyway. She wipes her middle finger over d’Artagnan’s bottom lip and his eyes open a little; she pushes it inside his mouth and he sucks, eyelids heavy and low.

With the next pull, their next thick exhalation, she reaches down between her legs to trace a circle around her clit. D’Artagnan watches, his hunger somehow palpably intensifying. His breath comes lower now, and gritty.

“Wait,” Athos warns, just as d’Artagnan is mouthing to Constance “let me,” barely audible, reaching for her.

Constance catches Athos’ eye. “If I,” she begins, rolling onto her back. He nods, reaching for the lube on the nightstand, and then cants his head at what else he finds there. With a _huh_ , he lifts one of the carefully procured condom packets. Constance grimaces. Right: why would they need a condom when he’s already fucked her without one?

“It’s just that I don’t quite see the point,” he says and, with a wink, drops it back on the night table.

Constance takes a settling breath, then returns her attention to ragged, panting d’Artagnan. She guides him up over her for a kiss, then pushes him gently down her body.

D’Artagnan can barely think for all the want in him. He wants with every inch of his skin, with every hole and with his heavy, hanging cock. Constance’s cunt opens under his lips. He licks inside, tasting the salt tang of her.

Now Athos is back, hands light on d’Artagnan’s hips. “Up,” he whispers, “on your knees.”

He hates to leave Constance unfinished, but he obeys Athos and kneels.

“My love,” Constance begins, tracing the line between his navel and his cock, “we can share you. Come back.”

D’Artagnan lets go a wavering breath and bends his face back to her cunt, acutely aware of the way his ass stretches in full view of Athos, how wildly good it feels to be asked for this.

Athos hums his appreciation as he brushes his hand over the soft skin of d’Artagnan’s ass.

D’Artagnan sucks at Constance’s clit, licks a swirl tight around it, tries to concentrate. He can hear Athos warming lube on his fingers and then Athos presses a kiss to dArtagnan’s lower back and d’Artagnan knows this is it.

His body stiffens in anticipation.

“It’s okay,” Athos tells him, gentling him with a hand on his hip.

D’Artagnan nods, licks. Constance lays a reassuring hand on d’Artagnan’s hair.

First, just Athos’ knuckle. Gentle pressure. A turn, a swirl, just like Constance likes, and then more pressure.

It feels strange and perfect and amazing.

A little more and d’Artagnan groans. Constance threads her fingers into his hair. “You like that?”

Another groan, _yes,_ and Athos pushes the pad of his finger inside.

Slowly – it feels slow, but he’s losing his sense of time, he’s all skin and sensation now – d’Artagnan lets himself go. He grinds his face into Constance’s cunt while, with a patience d’Artagnan could never match, Athos opens him. His body curls and thrusts of its own volition.

By the time Athos pulls his three fingers out and braces d’Artagnan’s hips, d’Artagnan’s face is slick and pressed incoherently into Constance’s upper thigh. He kisses her finger when she traces his lip, and then he can feel her working herself closer to coming.

Athos wants back inside. He doesn’t want to hurt him but d’Artagnan is waiting and wanting and Athos _needs_ to fuck him. And now, finally, now he will. One hand on d’Artagnan’s hip, one hand holding his own cock against d’Artagnan’s hole, his mouth opens with a strangled groan as he pushes inside.

It can’t be real. It _is_ real.

D’Artagnan holds his breath. Athos should wait until d’Artagnan warms to this, gets used to it, gets used to Athos’ cock and with that thought, Athos can’t help but thrust. It punches out an “oh” from d’Artagnan.

Constance asks d’Artagnan if he’s okay. He pumps a fast, ragged nod against her. She looks up at Athos and, biting her lip, nods.

Another thrust, and d’Artagnan braces himself, holding tight to Constance’s thighs for support.

If Athos can keep his mind clear, he’ll be able to fuck d’Artagnan the way he deserves to be fucked. If he can keep out the memories, the visions of d’Artagnan beaming with admiration, d’Artagnan lean and dark under the September sun, d’Artagnan’s head thrown back in a laugh, d’Artagnan’s face, d’Artagnan’s lips, d’Artagnan coming –

Athos thrusts, helpless to slow himself. “D’Artagnan,” he breathes, and thrusts again.

“You’re taking it so well,” Constance says, a whine in her voice, looking down at d’Artagnan’s blissed out, open face.

Athos grabs d’Artagnan’s hips tighter, pulling him closer, hoisting his ass a little higher and, with another thrust, elicits a new, more desperate groan. “Good?” Athos strains.

“Touch me,” d’Artagnan manages between breaths.

Those words, the sound of his voice so overcome, sends Athos almost to the edge. He bites his lip and slides one hand around d’Artagnan. With a tightening fist, he smears the slick at the tip of d’Artagnan’s cock down the length of him. D’Artagnan is so gorgeously close, it’s all he needs. He lurches, “ _God_ ,” and clenches around Athos, pulling him in, _he’s so good, it’s so good…_

Constance tucks away the memory of their ecstatic faces like a precious treasure.

 

Aramis laid out under Porthos, bare and trying not to writhe, is better than Porthos ever imagined. Aramis’ breath becomes a whine when Porthos pauses too long between kisses; Porthos soothes him with hands and pressure and a low, moaning exhalation. Aramis arches up toward Porthos’ mouth, open over Aramis’ hip. Aramis whispers, “please,” and Porthos wants to give him _everything_.

Porthos falls on Aramis’ cock like a starving man. He’s not slow, doesn’t tease; in one groaning move, he slides Aramis’ cock down the length of his tongue and sucks.

“Porthos!” Aramis strains.

Porthos spreads his palms over Aramis’ helplessly thrusting hips, not to stop him, just to stay with him. Porthos sucks and pulls, eyelids low but open because Aramis writhing under him, _because_ of him is too beautiful to miss. Aramis’ breath is fast and tight, nearly a sob, and he’s grabbing fistfuls of sheet when Porthos finally slows a little, pointing the tip of his tongue to trace the vein up to the tip of Aramis’ cock.

Something like “ohhh” comes from deep in Aramis’ chest.

 _There it is._ Porthos works Aramis’ cock, steadily, relentlessly, until Aramis comes gorgeously undone under him.

 

**Sunday**

Constance stirs, sure something woke her. D’Artagnan most likely, off for his morning run. The light is fresh and new; it’s barely dawn. Or it could have been Athos getting up; he turns the water on in the adjoining bathroom, brushing his teeth.

Constance stretches, then curls on her side, gathering the thin pillow in a wad under her head. She watches Athos at the sink, bending to spit out a mouthful of lathering toothpaste. It’s intimate, seeing him like this, but not awkward. He notices her watching when he’s done and, with a secret smile, climbs into bed beside her.

“Morning,” she says as she abandons her pillow in favor of his chest.

He brushes his fingers lightly over her bare shoulder, over the soft curve of her back. “Good morning.”

Her eyes fall closed again as his soft touch raises goosebumps over her skin. “If it weren’t for you, here, I’d swear last night was a dream.”

Athos pauses. “Regrets?”

She squeezes him. “Not for a second.”

 

The front door catching its latch behind d’Artagnan wakes Louis Jr., still sacked out on the couch in the dim light after dawn. So he’s mostly awake when Aramis comes down, freshly showered, not twenty minutes later. “You leaving already?” Louis Jr. asks and it’s too early in the morning to mask his disappointment.

“No, no,” Aramis assures him, stopping in the doorway. “I’m just going to mass. There’s an early service nearby.” And then, with a sparkle in his eye: “Wanna come?”

“Sure, gimme five minutes to get ready.”

“How about ten and you take a shower?”

 

John made it all night. He didn’t knock on Anne’s door once, didn’t open it slowly enough it might not squeak, didn’t slip into bed beside her and breath her in. He almost did, perhaps a hundred times, but in the end he stayed put. And now it’s morning and his success tastes sour.

He loved her, silently, for longer than he cared to admit. And it was painful. But maybe it was better than _knowing_. Now it’s not just vague, imagined encounters that will haunt him but the real memory of her lips, her body against his. The stunning strength of her want.

If he lets them, those memories will drown out everything else in his life. No: whatever this dream was, this pocket of magic, he has to let it go now.

John heads into the bathroom for a shower, sure he’ll be the first, but the small, windowless room is still humid from a previous shower, the mirror still fogged around the edges. He lets the water heat up, probably longer than he needs to; he’s reluctant, in spite of himself, to rinse the faint floral breath of her from his skin. He reaches up to scratch his forehead and her scent surrounds him.

_Let go._

Fifteen minutes later he’s in the kitchen, alone.

 

Louis Jr. and Aramis drive the Illinois backroads in silence at first. Then Louis Jr. turns in his seat toward Aramis. “How did you know you wanted to be a priest?”

Aramis squints into the morning light. _I needed something to distract me._ But no: at the time he was sure, even if he wasn’t entirely self-aware. “It just felt right,” he finally answers.

“Sometimes I think I would make a good priest,” Louis Jr. muses.

“I’m sure you would,” Aramis answers, his voice a little hollow.

“And sometimes I think I’d be miserable.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Really?” Louis Jr. laughs.

“I don’t know any priests who aren’t, deep down, most of the time.”

“Wow.” And then, after almost a minute of silence, “are you?”

Aramis can’t answer at first. Everything has changed. _Everything._ He’s not a priest anymore, not in his heart, not where it counts. Going to church this morning – with his son no less – is as much about letting go as it is about habit. He was miserable but he didn’t know it. And now? Now he’s so full of effervescent hope he wouldn’t be surprised if he floated up into the clouds like a helium balloon.

“I’m working on it,” Aramis tells him, biting back a secret smile.

They drive in silence a few miles.

“What about you?” Aramis asks Louis Jr. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

Aramis levels a short but effective glare at him. “You know part of our training is as counselors? We are excellent listeners. Plus, we are experts on grieving. I got an A+ in Funeral Skills.”

It works: Louis Jr. chuckles.

“Observe: how are you doing with the whole major death in your family thing? See? Style _and_ substance.”

More chuckles, but then Louis Jr.’s face turns serious. “It’s really weird. I keep thinking I’ll see him when we get home.” He shakes his head. “Which is stupid.”

“Not even a little bit stupid. I imagine he was a good father,” Aramis continues.

“He was, actually, but not in a father-y way. He was like a kid himself a lot. He knew how to play. Mom was always the adult, but Dad was like an older brother half the time. I don’t want to go home and have him not be there. This weekend is. I don’t know. It’s like three days of denial, and I feel like when we leave I won’t have any place to hide.”

Aramis doesn’t trust his impulse to reach out and squeeze the kid’s shoulder. If it were a kid at the center, would he do it? He certainly wouldn’t worry about it. It’s because it’s _this_ kid, _his_ kid, that he’s questioning his motives. Does he want to touch him, selfishly, because he has wanted to every second he’s been with him this weekend? Because being with him has awakened the dormant ache he first felt when he found out Anne was pregnant all those years ago? Is it just an excuse?

Does it matter? The kid is grieving. He shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Aramis braces his hand on Louis Jr.’s shoulder and squeezes.

 

Porthos wakes up alone in Aramis’ bed, but he doesn’t realize it at first. The pillows and sheets still smell like sleepy, cozy Aramis. Porthos’ lower lip is still a bit raw – it still tingles a little when he scrapes his teeth over it. Porthos stretches, and takes a deep, indulgent whiff of the pillow.

When he opens his eyes and finds himself alone, it doesn’t worry him; Aramis must already be downstairs.

He pulls on his jeans and pads to the kitchen. Constance is at the counter, pouring a mug of coffee. She turns and, seeing him, brightens. She hands him the mug with one hand and with the other tugs him down by the arm to kiss him on the cheek. Porthos wraps his arm around her and presses a kiss to her temple.

“That was my coffee,” Athos grumbles from the far end of the counter. He’s whisking eggs and milk in a bowl; three quarters of the last sandwich loaf is stacked in front of him.

“French toast?” Porthos asks.

“With cinnamon that’s got to be at least thirty years old.”

“Ten, max,” Anne counters.

Porthos flashes Athos a grin and takes a lingering sip. John is leaning against the door to the garage, behind where Anne sits at the table, and now Constance comes around behind Athos, leaving a freshly poured mug in front of him before sitting in the chair across from Anne.

Aramis isn’t here.

“Where is,” he begins, and catches himself, for what it’s worth. “Where is everybody?”

Anne picks up a note on the table. “Louis Jr. voluntarily accompanied Aramis to church, and see how I’m not worried? I’m not worried.”

Constance reaches across to squeeze her hand.

“And d’Artagnan is out for a run,” Athos adds.

Porthos feels his chest shrink into itself and his face go blank. He nods absently, clenching his teeth. Dread turns the spit in his mouth bitter.

Aramis went to church.

Aramis crept out before Porthos was even _awake_ and drove his ass to church because he regrets last night. He went to church to confess the sin of being with someone when he vowed not to, of being with a man no less; he’s there to confess the sin of _sodomy_. He went to ask forgiveness for letting himself be kissed, sucked, fucked and from what Porthos remembers (will always remember), loving every moment of it. He’s there to rededicate himself to the priesthood, to erase what happened between them, to erase what he felt. Of course he is. What did Porthos think was going to happen? How could one night possibly stand up to more than a decade of working for God?

He leans back against the counter and reminds himself to breathe.

Once Athos has whisked in vanilla and the ancient cinnamon, he shifts down the counter to the stove. Porthos gets the biggest frying pan out for him, having discovered it in his first exploration of the kitchen. Much of the Teflon has worn away, exposing scraped, pale metal underneath.

“This can’t be safe,” Athos mutters just loud enough for Porthos to hear.

“Lots of oil,” Porthos suggests.

Athos examines it skeptically. “Maybe I could make a bread pudding or something.”

“Live dangerously and make the damn French toast,” Porthos insists without an ounce of conviction.

Anne shifts in her seat to face Athos better. “So how’d you meet her?”

Constance answers Porthos’ raised eyebrow with her own, and a mischievous smile to boot. “Athos was telling us about his girlfriend Sylvie.”

“That’s news,” Porthos says, and elbows Athos.

Athos ignores him. He drops a slice of bread in the bowl and turns to Anne. “She organized our adjunct faculty into a union and tripled my workload.”

“Nice,” Constance marvels. “I like her already.”

“You’ll love her,” Athos tells her in a suddenly softer voice.

“Sleeping with the enemy, huh?” John prompts.

Athos flips over the bread in the bowl, poking at it to make sure it’s covered in creamy, eggy batter, then heats a burner. “I was a faculty rep in the negotiations, essentially there to beef up the administration’s side. I had nothing to offer; all I could do was listen. So I did, and I realized that Sylvie was right. It was exploitation. She had the same credentials as the tenured faculty, they all did, but we were paying them a tiny fraction of the average faculty salary. And giving them all of the shit courses. They had no job security, no benefits. And where was the rest of the money going, the money we should have been paying them? To the administrators I was sitting next to.”

He pours a few tablespoons of oil in the pan, then another for good measure, and lays the soggy slice into it. “So when it came down to it, I sided with her.”

“Thereby tripling your _own_ workload,” Anne clarifies.

“Yes. Gladly.”

“Is she still teaching in your department?” John asks.

“No, she took off this semester because she’s pregnant.”

“What?” Porthos coughs. “You’re having a baby? And this is how you tell us?”

Constance flushes pink.

“She was pregnant when we met.” He turns the slice and adds another to the pan. “But yes, we will be a family in… five and a half months.”

That’s when d’Artagnan, under a sheen of sweat, pulls the door open from behind John. The ensuing falling, catching, and laughing hijacks the conversation.

“How many miles?” John asks as d’Artagnan downs a full glass of water.

“Six? Why, you wanna go?”

“My husband, always up for a second round,” Constance giggles.

“Aren’t you lucky,” Anne deadpans, and Athos coughs a laugh over the stove.

D’Artagnan fills his empty glass and sits beside his wife. He drapes a sweaty arm over her shoulders and nuzzles under her hair to smear a kiss over her neck.

“Ew,” she whines with a stubborn grin.

He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Revenge.”

John ends up next to Porthos. “So,” Porthos asks him, “do you think you might go back to coaching now?”

John shoots a wary look at Anne. “Don’t know,” he answers, almost without moving his lips at all.

“Actually,” Anne says, standing, “I wanted to talk to you about that, John. I suppose, the sooner the better.”

The room goes silent. All eyes turn to her.

Even in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, there is something regal in the way she holds herself now. “Someone has to take over as mayor, and I think it should be you.”

“Me?” John asks, incredulous. “I’m the last person --”

“You could hit the ground running. Think about it: you’ve been the backbone of Louie’s administration since the beginning and everyone at City Hall knows it. It’s only natural for you to step in, first as interim mayor. Then they’ll call an election, for August most likely, and by then? The whole city will love you the way we do. It’ll be a landslide.”

John can only shake his head.

“Please, John. There’s no one else anywhere near as qualified as you.”

At that, everything falls into place. “That’s not true,” John counters with the beginning of a grin. “You are.”

Anne takes a step back. “What?”

“You,” John repeats, gathering steam. “You’re a born leader, Anne. Louie would never have asked me for help if he had realized what he had in _you_.”

“You can’t be serious.” Anne looks to Constance, to Athos, to Porthos. They’re no help, all pumping nods and broadening smiles.

“You know as much about how to run the city as I do,” John assures her. “Probably more. And the city trusts you.” He takes her hand in both of his. His eyes are as intense, as pleading as she’s ever seen them. “You can do this.”

Anne helplessly stares back. Her voice is thin as a breeze. “How can you be sure? I’m not – I haven’t --”

“I’d be right there with you.”

(Porthos knows what a sacrifice it would be for John to stay on, and trusts him all the more for offering to.)

Anne sits back down. Her hand slips out of John’s hold.

“John’s right,” Athos tells her, gently.

Constance reaches across the table to squeeze Anne’s wrist. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

 

There are traditional masses, and then there’s this one. Conducted entirely in Latin, it brings back memories of chilly winter mornings at the seminary. The priest here has a brittle, emotional voice; everything he chants sounds like a confession. If today is a kind of farewell, Aramis is glad it’s with this vulnerable leader, in this precious gem of a church.

He feels the familiar wash of devotion, registers the opening of his spirit. Effortless things that he once believed would be enough. His eyelids close; he thanks the Lord for the chance to meet his astonishing, perfect, kind son. He sends up a grateful prayer for last night, and can’t help but smile to himself. He thanks God for the miracle of Porthos, and for the bravery – Porthos’ and his own – that gave them to each other even after all this time. There’s more gratitude, he’s brimming with it: for Anne’s forgiveness, and for the kind of friendships that make a family.

He vows to honor them all with everything he is.

But he can’t be a priest anymore. There are tears behind his eyelids. His throat tightens. _I’m sorry_ , he prays as, at the same time, he realizes God has always known how much of himself he held back. Was he ever the kind of priest God deserved? _I can only be the kind of_ man _You deserve._

Stepping out into the cool Spring morning after mass, Aramis feels _free_.

 

Porthos gets antsy standing still in the packed kitchen while his mind traces and retraces a hurt that feels both new and cruelly familiar. So he heads out to the driveway with the basketball. While he dribbles, he rehearses what he’ll say to Aramis when he gets back.

_I know, you can’t be with me and keep your job._

_For the record, it’s a shit requirement – maybe next time, choose a job that doesn’t preclude fucking? Or love?_

_Or me?_

_No, I get it. You’ve chosen that life – and obviously it’s important to you, or you would have waited at least till I woke up to return to it. I get it. I can’t compete._

_I won’t make it hard for you. I know I can’t change your mind._

_It’s not the first time I’ve wanted someone more than they wanted me. I’ll be fine._

He’ll speak first. By the time he’s done, Aramis won’t have to say a thing.

He shoots and misses.

He keeps thinking, composing. Dribbling. He argues himself into corners.

Porthos hears Aramis’ car before he sees it. He sinks three baskets in quick succession before Aramis parks. Louis Jr. goes right inside, but Aramis pauses, holding up his hands for a pass.

Porthos keeps the ball.

Aramis can’t think of a reason for Porthos to be so tense and reserved. He won’t even look Aramis in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

Porthos doesn’t trust himself to answer Aramis’ question, but he doesn’t need to. He’s ready with a whole speech. “I know you can’t be with me and keep your job.”

Aramis was ready to celebrate. Now he’s totally wrong-footed. “True,” he says, both an answer and a question.

“You have to admit, that’s lame as fuck.”

His confusion only builds. “It is. Yeah.”

“I get it.” Porthos freezes in a strange pause.

“Do you?” Aramis asks, finally. “Because I feel like you don’t.”

Porthos huffs a rueful laugh. “You don’t even say goodbye, just sneak out without a note like some kind of criminal. Like a one night stand.” Heat is building in Porthos’ chest. And anger. “I thought last night meant more than that.”

“It did. Porthos --”

Porthos pauses, composes his face, and Aramis knows these next words will hurt.

Porthos’ voice goes even and quiet. “You couldn’t even give me one morning with you.”

All the air rushes out of Aramis’ lungs. He stands, hands on his hips, watching Porthos glare at the concrete beneath their feet.

“Do you know,” Aramis asks quietly in the silence, “why I went to mass this morning?”

Porthos doesn’t respond.

“I should have explained, but I thought – we never used to need to speak, about most things -- and since you were sleeping, you were so peaceful, so beautiful --”

“Don’t.”

“You were _so beautiful_ , I hated to wake you. I went to mass because I needed to say goodbye to my life as a priest and that felt like the right place to do it. I’ll call the bishop tomorrow and make it official.”

Porthos slowly meets Aramis’ eyes.

“Look, I can give you six mornings a week, but I’d really like to keep Sunday mornings for church.”

“Are you serious?”

“Hey, I may not be a priest anymore, but I’m still Catholic.”

“Not about – I mean --”

Aramis feels the tension between them transform. No longer pushing them apart, he senses it drawing them together. He lets it pull him a step closer to Porthos.

Porthos is a sunrise.

A hopeful smile flashes across Aramis’ face, but he wills it away. The making of vows is serious business. “I can think of nothing I want more in the world than to wake up beside you six days a week.”

Porthos exhales, helpless.

“Porthos,” Aramis murmurs, slipping his arms around Porthos’ waist.

“You’re really not a priest anymore?”

“I wasn’t a priest the moment you kissed me.”

There’s a breath -- Porthos nods his head vaguely -- and their mouths crash together.

Soon their kiss is perfectly unhurried, rich with reassurance and the exquisite sensation of Porthos’ lip captured gently between Aramis’ teeth, of Aramis’ lip aflame under Porthos’ tongue. Fingers reach around necks, slide softly into hair, and every touch is even better for the knowledge that it’s only the beginning.

Until they are interrupted. Athos seems to materialize beside them from thin air, in total silence. “Gentlemen.”

Aramis freezes. Porthos whines.

“I hoped I’d find you here, making out like teenagers.”

“Hardly. There wasn’t any groping,” Porthos protests thickly.

“Yet,” Aramis mutters.

“Constance and d’Artagnan have to be on the road in less than an hour,” Athos tells them, “if you’d like to join us?”

Aramis squeezes Porthos’ hand and leads them back into the house.

“Nice work,” Athos whispers at Porthos’ shoulder.

“You have _no idea_ ,” Porthos returns, and shoots him a filthy, satisfied grin.

 

Eventually – regretfully -- they all disperse to strip the beds, pack, and prepare the house to be empty until summer.

D’Artagnan catches Athos in the hallway outside his and Constance’s room. He tugs him inside, closes the door behind them, and kisses Athos long and deep.

Finally, d’Artagnan pulls away. He sniffs, biting his lip as he stares at Athos’ mouth. “Do you think Constance would mind driving while we fuck in the backseat the whole way back?”

Athos brushes his thumb over d’Artagnan’s cheek. “Next weekend. Dinner. You and Constance will meet Sylvie and fall madly in love with her, and her with you... We can wait till then.”

D’Artagnan steals one more kiss. “Speak for yourself.”

 

Out on the upstairs balcony, Anne is absently folding an ancient blanket when John joins her. He stands beside her and gazes with her out over the lake.

“Just tell me,” he says, so quietly she’s not sure at first if she really heard it. “Not now, or not ever?”

Anne takes a wavering breath. “Do you mean the campaign, or…?”

John looks down at the railing, silent.

Of course Anne knows what he means. She reaches along the railing and lays her hand on his. “Just not now.”

John looks down at her hand on his. He stretches his fingers and hers fall in the spaces between them. “Good.”

 

Aramis plops himself on the futon in Porthos’ room. “Technically, I don’t have a place to live now. They’ll kick me out by the end of the week, if not sooner.”

Porthos nods, slipping his laptop in its slim pocket. “What about the kids at the center?”

“I’m sure they’ll find someone else. We’ll stop in tomorrow and say goodbye, and you can meet whoever’s there. I hate to leave them, but honestly, there’s more counseling staff than they know what to do with.” He lets out a deep breath. “I am unemployed.”

Porthos turns around to face Aramis, arms folded across his chest. “Listen, I’m a freelance journalist. I’m barely employed myself.”

Aramis’ face brightens. “Which means you can live anywhere.”

Fair point. He can, come September when his lease is up.

And Boston is, as they say, wicked pricey.

“Okay then,” Porthos concedes. “Where do you want to go?”

Aramis’ eyes blare unabashed love. “With you? Everywhere.”

 

Bags form a haphazard pile in the middle of the living room, while everyone congregates one last time in the kitchen. No one can seem to sustain a smile, let alone a laugh.

“I don’t want to go back. Let’s never leave,” Constance says.

Most everyone nods.

“Christmas at our place,” d’Artagnan blurts. “You’re all invited.”

Constance takes d’Artagnan’s hand. “I wish we could, but we’re supposed to go to Mom’s this year – except, March to –“ She stops and looks warily at d’Artagnan.

He gasps with the realization. “Right. Maybe not Christmas. And maybe not our place, if you’re…”

(Aramis and Porthos squint at each other. Nine months. Huh.)

“My place is too small,” Athos says. “We’d have to sleep in shifts.”

When Athos looks to Aramis, he’s met with a shrug. “I don’t even know where I’ll be living next _week_ ,” Aramis protests.

“With me,” Porthos confirms with a wink, “in Boston. But you’re all welcome for brunch in my one bedroom fourth floor walk-up.”

Anne sighs. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

 

* * *

 

Anne has just filled the refrigerator to brimming when John arrives with two bottles of wine and an unruly bouquet of swimming noodles. “The rest is in the car,” he says. But even before he’s put them down, Anne holds his jaw to plant a soft, relieved kiss on his lips.

They are so rarely alone.

“It’s finally today,” she marvels, lifting the wine out of his hands.

“Your favorite day of the year,” he reminds her.

“Don’t pretend it’s not yours, too,” she teases.

 

Aramis and Porthos drive up a few minutes later. They unload two roller bags, a bag of groceries, and four garishly wrapped presents.

“You’re turning him gray,” John teases Porthos as he pulls him into a tight hug.

“I am not gray!” comes Aramis’ response from the kitchen, where he’s already unloading even more food.

“It’s why he shaved the beard,” Porthos tells him in a stage whisper. “It’s full white.”

Aramis hears every word. “Oh yeah? Porthos is taking blood pressure meds!”

“Okay, okay,” John laughs. “You’re both equally decrepit.”

 

Not ten minutes later, the first squeals of their two-week vacation can be heard in the driveway. The voices get louder as they near the front door.

A sweet little voice first. “ _Now_ can we go swimming?”

Softer, reasonable. Sylvie. “You have to put on your swimsuit first.”

The little voice again, loud and proud. “But I’m wearing it!”

“Oh, you are?”

A car door shuts. A droning deadpan: Athos. “I let her wear the suit. She was adamant.”

“Okay then,” Sylvie says pointedly. “Daddy will take you swimming in just a little while.”

The front door swings open. Aramis kneels in the middle of the living room, ready to catch the little swimmer when she comes running. “Claire bear!”

She stops just in front of him, hands on her hips. “I’m not a bear now, Uncle Aramis.” She’s tiny, but notably self-possessed. Three going on twenty.

Aramis bows his head, properly chastised. “I understand.”

“I’m just Claire.”

Aramis is utterly charmed. “Claire - who is not a bear - I’m very glad to see you again.”

“Okay, now you can hug me.”

He stands, laughing, and lifts her into a swingy, twirly dance.

There are hugs and kisses all around, and before Claire can drag Athos out to the lake, Constance pushes the unlatched door open again. “We’re here….”

Constance is carrying a few light bags; d’Artagnan is being led by a tiny, pale boy. “Pogo!” the boy calls. “Pogo, I have a secret!”

Porthos’ smile is wide with delight. “Alex!” he cries, and lets himself be tackled to the ground.

Athos takes Constance’s things with a quick kiss on the cheek; Sylvie catches her up is a sideways hug, and Anne is the first one not already in the know to see why. “Constance?”

Constance’s hand falls to her small but unmistakably pregnant belly.

Anne runs squealing to her oldest, best friend, catching her up in a careful, sweet hug. Aramis and Claire hug Constance together, while Claire makes sure they both know that it wasn’t her fault, she kept the secret about the baby. Porthos and Alex make their way to where d’Artagnan and Athos are standing together, proudly watching Constance. Handshakes quickly become hugs, except for the handshake Alex offers Athos, which Athos accepts with indulgently grave solemnity.

When Philip and Louis Jr. arrive a few hours later, it's the first thing Anne tells them. Louis Jr. high-fives d'Artagnan; Philip can't keep his eyes off Constance's belly.

Four years in, their annual reunion has developed traditions of its own.

Every year, John brings fireworks and sets them off over the lake.

Every year, Athos, Sylvie, Constance, and d’Artagnan all sleep upstairs together in the attic (to save space, they say, and no one argues). This year, for the first time, the kids will share the bunkbed room and the adults will have the attic all to themselves. Sylvie brought toys and everything.

Every year on the night before they all go home, they build a bonfire on their small beach; now that the kids are older, d’Artagnan and Sylvie plan to introduce s’mores to the operation.

Every year, Porthos takes one day (and all available counter space) to cook something wonderful. His sous chef is always Louis Jr. The only person who gets advance notice is Athos (not even Aramis, despite an array of creative needling techniques). Athos brings a few bottles of a wine he insists everyone will love with Porthos’ dish. And every year, he and Aramis finish them without much help.

Every year, Sylvie and Constance go for a swim around the perimeter of the lake, and every year, Philip comes along. It takes hours.

Every year, John insists there isn’t room for him to stay the night (although Louis Jr. always offers to sleep on the couch), so he only comes up that first day and then once or twice more, just for the day.

Every year, Anne thinks: _next year, I’ll ask him to stay._

Every year, the uncles and the boys (except Alex, so far) go out to the island. Athos and d’Artagnan have amassed an impressive collection of tools over the years, dedicated entirely to this project, that they keep in the garage behind the bikes.

And every year, on the first night they’re all gathered, Anne makes a toast. She sits at one end of the table that’s now permanently stretched with two extra leaves so it can fit everyone. She lifts her wine glass; everyone follows suit, now including Claire and Alex with small plastic cups of apple juice.

This year, she thinks she may be able to do it without crying. “To family, and to Louie.”

“To family,” they repeat, “and to Louie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for you generous, insightful comments, your feats of patience, and your enthusiasm. I'm one lucky perv.

**Author's Note:**

> Champaign, Illinois is a MUCH bigger city than I make it out to be here. Castelmore College is made up. Are there little get-away lakes two hours southwest of Champaign? NO IDEA.
> 
> I like the name John Treville rather than his more cumbersome, not at all modern-sounding original moniker -- I got it from cherryfeather's fucking brilliant "my heart on my sleeve," and I will wait quietly while you go read it because I love you. After that, come sit by me (jwab on tumblr) and we can chat about whatever this thing has stirred up for you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Everything of You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984642) by [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori)




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